


Romancing the Undertaker

by mizdiz



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Comedy, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Unplanned Pregnancy, i'm having so much fun!!!, kind of, self-indulgent bullshit even more than usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-02-18 06:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 86,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21740134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizdiz/pseuds/mizdiz
Summary: A story about death, love, and a love of death.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Carol Peletier
Comments: 40
Kudos: 122





	1. I. As a Doornail

**Author's Note:**

> yooo! this is what i like to call my "palate cleansing project." i work on it when i need a break from bigger projects, because this is so much a "me" fic to write, and it's rull self-indulgent, y'all. like, i read too many caitlin doughty books and think now i gotta turn the info into caryl shit. who does that? me. i do. i hope you find it entertaining. i'll update fairly regularly, but since it's not a "priority," it won't have any set deadlines. that's kind of the point of it. it's just for fun. 
> 
> general cw for really dark humor, death and descriptions of death (no major characters or anything, but the majority of this takes place at a funeral home, so like...), references to domestic violence and child abuse, and as usual, self-indulgent bullshit galore on my part. validate me in the comments, i'm collecting nice words to add to my collection so that i can grow powerful enough to take over the world. you know how it goes 
> 
> k, love u, bye,
> 
> -diz

Daryl's father was dead.

Like, as a doornail, dead. 

Daryl wasn’t the one who found him. That unfortunate task had been unwittingly delegated to a couple neighborhood kids breaking into trailers in the park at random, searching for beer or smokes or spare cash. When they picked the lock of Daryl’s daddy’s trailer, they’d been met with the sight and stench of a corpse that had been left to rot without air conditioning in the Georgia heat for a week, at least, according to the coroner.

The kids had opted out of snatching up the beer.

Merle wasn’t about to deal with it—that went without saying. After they received the phone call from a woman who was “very sorry” for their loss, and also could they please provide an ETA on when someone would be by to identify the body, because they were running low on freezer space, Merle’s suggestion had been to toss their daddy’s body out into the woods and let nature have at him. Daryl hadn’t been opposed to this idea, per say, but they had Georgia law to consider. Was “let the wolves eat him” an acceptable burial plan, or was it a felony?

So that’s how Daryl ended up where he is now—standing awkwardly at an empty front desk in the crematorium attached to the local funeral home, waiting for someone to show up and hand over what’s left of his piece of shit dad.

There should be a bell, Daryl thinks to himself, shoving his hands into his pockets and bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, craning his neck to try and see if he can make out any movement through the cracked door across the room.

He had ordered the cheapest thing on the menu—a basic cremation with no thrills or bedazzlings. Just put the fucker in the oven and hand him back over. Oh, what kind of urn did he want? Pour the fucker into a grocery sack for all he cared, just please come pick him up before they complain about freezer space again, apparently it’s a busy time of year for corpses, also do you take MasterCard?

The crematorium doesn’t smell like he thought it would, not that he even knows what kind of smell he expected. Charred flesh, probably, with maybe a hint of some harsh, chemical disinfectant. Instad, the lobby smells like one of those fancy candles they have at stores that exclusively sell candles for whatever reason; one of those candles with a name that does nothing to tell you what the actual scent is, like Luscious Woodland Forest, or Dawn’s Early Light. Daryl’s pretty sure three-fourths of those smells are just variants on vanilla anyway. Waste of money.

Seriously, they should have a bell. Or a “be back soon “ sign at least. How long is too long to stand around the human incineration store before it’s officially awkward?

“Oh!”

A voice comes from behind Daryl, and he turns around to find a woman coming in from another side door, untying an apron from around her waist.

“Have you been helped yet?” she asks, folding the apron up into a neat square without even looking at it, draping it over her elbow. When Daryl shakes his head she sighs. “I’m sorry,” she says. “We’ve got a new employee, and...well, it doesn’t matter. I apologize. Let me get her real fast.”

“S’fine,” Daryl mumbles, his irritation melting away in an instant thanks to a nice big helping of dick brain. Not his fault, of course—it’s impossible not to notice how pretty this woman is. She holds herself with confidence, her nice figure accentuated by the way she stands with her spine straight and shoulders squared, but she’s got a cute face, and an even cuter smile when she gives him an apologetic upturn of her lips, and it softens all her edges. She walks towards the room Daryl had been trying to peek into earlier, fussing with her hair with one hand, which is curly and twisted up into a complicated bun on the back of her head. It’s auburn with streaks of premature grey threaded through it, giving her an air of wisdom.

In short, she’s hot, and Daryl momentarily forgets all the stupid bullshit that’s led him here on a late Wednesday afternoon, as the woman sticks her head into the room he can’t see and calls for someone named Tara.

“Oh shit, man, sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” A twenty-something woman in jeans and a t-shirt advertising a band Daryl has never heard of hurries out to the front desk when she realizes he’s there. The hot woman clears her throat at Tara, who cringes at herself and amends, “Er, I mean, my apologies for keeping you waiting, sir. How can I help you today?”

And just like that Daryl’s back to the bullshit.

How can she help him today? That’s a tricky one to formulate a response to. Barbequed dad retrieval? I’m here to pick up the charred remains of my childhood trauma? One box of blackened corpse with a side helping of unresolved daddy issues to go, please!

“Uh,” Daryl falters.

“Pick up or drop off?” Tara asks, clacking her fingers over a keyboard on her computer. The hot woman huffs at her again, and Tara drops her voice into a solemn drawl, and hastily adds, “You know...so I can give you the proper assistance in regards to your deceased.”

Daryl bites back a snort, not wanting to get this Tara chick into any more shit with the hot woman who he’s reasonably certain is her boss.

“Ah, pick-up, I guess,” he mutters.

“Name?” Tara asks, voice immediately sliding back into casual.

“Mine or like…? Uh, whatever, both should be under ‘Dixon.’”

“Richard Dixon?” Tara asks, still clacking away.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“And are you Daryl?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool. Got you all pulled up here. Hey, did this guy ever go by the nickname Dick?” Tara asks, and Daryl wonders if this woman has ever thought through a sentence before saying it in her life.

“Uh, sometimes,” Daryl says, raising an eyebrow. Tara barks a laugh and then immediately covers her mouth.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just...Dick Dixon,” she says, by way of explanation. 

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Tara,” Hot Woman says, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Sorry, boss,” Tara says, cheeks going red, but Daryl waves a dismissive hand at her.

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” he tells her. “Let’s just say the name fit him damn near perfect.”

Tara beams at him.

“Let me guess,” she says knowingly. “Dad?”

“Mhm.”

“What assholes, am I right?” she asks, holding her arm out with her hand curled into a fist. Daryl blinks, and then lightly taps his own fist against hers with a non-committal nod.

Is this always how weird this sort of thing goes?

Hot Woman seems to suggest that, no, this isn’t typical, because in an instant she’s shooing Tara back into the room she came from, telling her to, “Fetch Mr. Dixon, or so help me God, Chambler.” Tara scurries off, and Hot Woman leans against the front desk, arms crossed, and gives Daryl a long-suffering sigh.

“She’s in mortuary school,” she says. “She graduates in August, but until then there’s a limit on what she’s legally allowed to do. She’s a gifted embalmer, and a genuinely good person, don’t get me wrong, I hired her for a reason, but…” She shrugs. “Maybe front desk work isn’t her strong suit.”

“I dunno,” Daryl mutters, averting his gaze and kicking at the floor. “I kinda like her.”

A grin blooms across Hot Woman’s face that  _ does _ something to him, and he’s eternally grateful at the return of Tara, this time carrying a small box in her hands. She thrusts it out to Daryl, who grabs it instinctively.

“Here you go, dude. Payment’s all gone through and everything. You and Dick are good to go.”

“Uh, yeah,” Daryl says, holding the plain plastic box in front of him like a bomb that’ll detonate if he moves too suddenly. “Thanks.”

He makes to leave, casting a final good look at Hot Woman. Her smile is gentler now.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she says.

He’s heard that a lot over the past week, and usually he just mutters a thanks, but she seems so sincere, and he feels bad letting her waste her sincerity on a guy like Dick Dixon. Hesitating a moment, he worries his lower lip between his teeth and then shrugs.

“Don’t be,” he tells her, and then shows himself to the door.

Outside is grey and bleak, and it’s starting to drizzle. Daryl crosses the small parking lot to his truck, arms still outstretched comically in front of him, his father neatly packaged in his hands. He stands before the truck and suddenly freezes.

This was his father’s truck. Daryl and Merle had fought over it, but Daryl insisted that if he had to deal with a dead body he should at least get a truck out of the ordeal, especially since his beat-up little bitchass Chevy Cavalier has been on its last legs for months now. “Gimme the damn truck so we can avoid my car crappin’ out on the highway and you havin’ to deal with another death in the family,” he’d argued, and Merle relented, eventually, and at the time it had felt like a victory.

It feels like something else, now.

Daryl’s not sure what emotions staring blankly at this shitty truck is dredging up right here, right now, but there sure are a lot of them.

It can’t be grief. Even after the initial shock of the, “he’s dead, Jim,” phone call wore off, he hadn’t felt anything much stronger than annoyance that he was gonna have to lose hours at work to deal with his father’s affairs. The last time he saw his father alive was five years ago, and that was only because Daryl had lost his copy of his birth certificate, and had to go rummaging around his dad’s trailer for the original.

(He’d found it after a good thirty minutes, crumpled up and shoved in a manila folder with old, sticky food stains on it. His dad was passed out in his recliner the entire time, and they never exchanged a word.)

Daryl doesn’t give a shit that his dad is dead. Good riddance, right? The only good thing his daddy had ever done was knock up his woman a couple times, and even then, Daryl isn’t convinced he and Merle are achievements worth writing home about. Daryl had stopped hating his father for the things he did a long time ago, and had instead settled into a pleasant apathy where he only ever thought about him when he got an accidental look at the scars on his back in the bathroom mirror.

His dad is dead—as a doornail, dead—and Daryl couldn’t care less.

Which then begs the question—why the hell is he still standing like a statue, eyes glued on that damn truck, like it’s the man’s gravestone, and to put the cheap, plastic urn inside it would be like burying a casket?

The drizzle is turning into rain. Droplets drip from the ends of Daryl’s shaggy hair. He continues to stand there like a dumbass.

“Hey.”

A soft voice calls over to him, startling him enough to break him out of his melodramatic reverie. He turns to find Hot Woman coming out of the crematorium and heading over to a large, white van—definitely looks like a pedo-van—parked in front of the door. She’s got her hand shielding her face from the rain, and she’s watching him with a wary expression. She probably thinks he’s having a capital M Moment, like how other people do when the reality of a death sinks in. She probably sees that a lot; sees breakdowns and grief and mourning. She’s probably preparing herself to say some comforting-yet-recycled platitude, because she assumes he’s upset about the whole dead dad thing.

Thankfully, of course, he’s not upset, because this isn’t a big deal, and it is most certainly not bringing up any feelings he thought he locked away in the mind vault years upon years ago. He is doin’ just fine, thank you very much, and hot or not, Daryl sees no sense in wasting either of their time insisting on such, so he gives her a tight smile and a stilted nod, and hastily goes about getting in this goddamn truck.

Without much thought, Daryl sets the box of dad dust up on the roof of the truck, and then puts his hands in his pockets, searching for his keys. The automatic unlock button is broken, so he puts the key in manually, struggling a minute as the old key sticks in the rusty lock. It finally clicks, and the following events happen, in this order:

  1. He takes hold of the handle and pulls the door open.
  2. The pail of papa powder, which Daryl didn’t realize until this moment was balancing precariously between the roof and door hinge, tips over and topples off the truck.
  3. The box makes hard contact with the ground with a loud splat, the lid getting knocked off in the process.
  4. Dick Dixon comes pouring out onto the wet, dirty concrete.
  5. Daryl and Hot Woman both stare at the mess for several tense seconds, their mouths open in identical O shapes.



Welp. Fuck.

Daryl’s first instinct is to pick up the urn, so he squats and snatches it up, but does so upside down, emptying out more of the contents. Swearing under his breath, he makes to scoop it back in with his hand, until he gives himself time to think that one through, and decides there are some things in life he simply has no desire to touch. He tries using the lid like a shovel. The ashes have started to become the consistency of moist kitty litter, clumping together as he spoons in a couple wet blobs of dad back into the container, until he realizes he’s just making it worse, getting smeary ash on the side of the urn and all over the lid. He lets the it all fall out of his hands, and he sits down directly in a puddle. He places his elbows on his bent knees, his arms dangling between his legs, as something unnerving wells up inside him, and for a terrifying moment he thinks he’s gonna cry. Except, instead, without his consent, laughter comes barreling out of his mouth.

He’s vaguely aware of Woman coming up tentatively beside him, careful to sidestep the heap of Daryl Dixon soot, whatever she was doing with the not-pedo van forgotten, but Daryl is too overcome with highly misplaced laughter to deal with her at the moment. He buries his face in the crook of his arm and shakes silently, laughing so hard he has to take in big gulps of air every few seconds to keep from suffocating. The whole upper part of his torso is starting to feel like it just got through an intensive ab workout, and his lungs are on fire. 

He goes on like that for some time, before steadying himself with a few solid breaths, only for him to lift his head, see the mess on the ground and Hot Woman staring at him like she can’t tell if he needs to be hugged or needs to be sectioned, and he cracks up all over again.

Finally, he gets some semblance of control, and leans back, thunking his head against the truck behind him and leaving it there. Occasional giggles bubble up and out of him. He shuts his eyes and smiles at the absurdity of it all.

Just wait until Merle hears about this one, Daryl thinks, fighting down another urge to laugh.

“You good? You get it all out of your system?”

Daryl opens his eyes and looks at Hot Woman. At some point she lowered herself to the ground. She’s sitting on her heels, and with her back straight and her hands placed palms down on her thighs, she looks like she’s doing a proper little yoga pose. Daryl grins lazily at her, his shyness and lack of social skills not even registering as his brain shifts fully into “I don’t give a flying fuck about  _ anything _ ” mode. 

“I dropped it,” he says to her, voice hoarse.

“You did,” she agrees.

“Whups.”

“Whups indeed.”

She doesn’t seem mad at him, and she isn’t acting like she’s about to call the psych ward and see if they do pick-ups. In fact, all things considered, she seems remarkably calm.

She must have seen some shit in her day to think his reaction is anything close to normal.

“I ain’t exactly sure what I’m s’posed to do here,” Daryl says. He gestures helplessly at the disaster before him. “I got like, an ice scraper in the truck I could use to scoop him back into the box, I guess.” He lets out a couple more chuckles at the thought. He doesn’t think he’s laughed this much in the past three years combined.

“I’m not sure of the best course of action myself,” she says. “What were you planning to do with the remains?”

“ _ The remains. _ ” Daryl snorts.

“Is there another phrase you’re more comfortable with?” she asks, and she’s still being so damn sincere, and Daryl once again feels the need to assure her that her energy is better spent elsewhere.

“The asshole,” he says. “Ask me what I was planning to do with what’s left of the asshole.”

Hot Woman hesitates for only a beat before asking, “Alright. Did you have any plans on what you were going to do with the asshole?”

Daryl smiles at her, and she returns it. She really does have a nice smile, he thinks, and up this close and personal he can see she’s got a light smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

“Didn’t have no plans,” he says. “Hell, pro’ly woulda ended up putting him in the shed and forgetting about him ‘til a spring cleaning down the road.”

“You were clearly very close to your father,” Hot Woman deadpans. Daryl gives a sage nod.

“Oh yeah, for sure,” he says sardonically. “This is pretty typical, you know? Drop nine hundred bucks on a cremation for the bastard, just for him to end up as parking lot dirt.”

“Hm, maybe there’s an afterlife and he did it to you on purpose.” 

Daryl is liking this woman more and more.

“Maybe,” he agrees.

Hot Woman holds out her hand then, and Daryl takes it after a moment.

“I’m Carol,” she says, giving him a firm handshake. Her skin is damp from the rain still falling on them.

“Daryl,” he mutters, realizing only afterwards that she already knows that. She doesn’t point this out, however, opting instead to drop his hand and get to her feet, prompting Daryl to do the same.

“There’s a cafe across the street. Let me buy you a coffee,” she says, and all at once Daryl remembers that he’s painfully shy.

“That’s alright,” he mumbles. “I should figure out what to do with this mess and then get outta your hair.”

Carol isn’t having it. She says, “Leave the mess. I’ll have my errand boy clean it up after he gets back from picking up Mrs. Gonzalez from the nursing home.”

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that Mrs. Gonzalez ain’t gonna be ridin’ shotgun.”

“No, but she’s got her own special seat in the refrigerated part in the back,” Carol says cheerfully. She inclines her head towards the direction of the cafe. “C’mon. I’m soaked clear through to my bones, and could use some coffee. Besides, I think you should take a few to collect yourself before driving anywhere.”

Daryl’s reflex is to insist, once again, that he’s fine and that, “no, really, I gotta be on my way,” but she’s looking up at him so earnestly with those big, blue eyes, and truth be told, he’s starting to get pretty damn cold out here in wet clothes, and could use a little warming up. His fucks haven’t been entirely replenished yet, giving him just enough confidence to accept her offer.

“Aight,” he says tentatively. “I guess I could go for a cup of joe.”

“They’ve got some killer orange pecan scones, too,” Carol says, waggling her eyebrow at him. Daryl snorts.

“Hell, why didn’t’cha lead with that?”

*

The coffee shop is a little hole in the wall place called  _ Le Café des Morts _ , which has capitalized on being inconveniently located next to a funeral home/crematorium by embracing the death theme whole-heartedly, to the point of bordering on excess. Inside has low lighting, and fake, flickering candles on every table. On the walls there are black and white photos of people who had famous deaths, a summary of their stories below each frame. The display case holding the baked goods is shaped like a coffin, and Daryl has to suppress an eyeroll when the barista opens it to take out two scones.

“You didn’t have to do that, I told you I’d pay,” Carol says, as they take a seat at a table near the back, with wiry chairs with backs that are supposed to resemble cemetery fencing. The two of them are a ridiculous sight, Daryl’s sure, after being in the rain so long. His clothes are heavy and sticking to him. Hers are too, and he’s trying very hard to not notice that her shirt is clinging to her chest and giving him a good view of what lay underneath.

“I spilled my dead dad’s ashes all of your parking lot. Least I could do,” Daryl says.

“I wouldn’t have gotten such an expensive drink if I knew you were paying,” she says guiltily. She had ordered some coffee monstrocity, with white chocolate, vanilla flavoring, almond milk, and a contradictory dollop of whipped cream on top, in contrary to his large black coffee he’s currently stirring a few sugar packets into.

“Least I could do,” Daryl says again, more pointedly this time, and she aquieces, but makes sure to narrow her eyes at him to ensure he knows she’s not pleased about it.

“So,” Carol says, tearing off a piece of her scone and holding it in front of her lips between two fingers. “Besides having breakdowns in parking lots, what’s your deal?” She pops the piece of scone into her mouth and chews slowly. 

“What’s my deal?”

“Mhm,” Carol hums.

“Wasn’t a breakdown.”

Carol swallows and says, “Bullshit,” grinning at Daryl’s glare.

“Whatever,” he mumbles. He traces the rim of his coffee mug with the tip of his index finger. “I dunno, whaddya want to know?” Now that he’s here, Daryl’s beginning to remember why he doesn’t go to coffee shops with random women. Is he meant to sit here and tell his whole life story? Are they supposed to exchange questions? Why had she even invited him here in the first place? 

“I don’t know, start with the basics. What do you do? How long have you lived in Georgia? What’s your deepest, darkest secret?”

Daryl smiles a little, staring down at the table, cupping his coffee mug with both hands.

“Work in construction,” he says. “Not quite as interestin’ as what you do.”

“That’s one word for it,” Carol says, taking a sip of her drink. She gets a whipped cream mustache, which she wipes away with her thumb, and Daryl flushes when she pops it into her mouth and licks it clean. 

“Uh.” He clears his throat. “What was the other questions?”

Carol smirks at him, and Daryl hopes he isn’t as transparent as he’s sure he probably is. He is  _ so _ far out of his depth right now.

“How long have you lived in Georgia, and what’s your deepest, darkest secret?”

“Lived in Georgia my whole life,” Daryl says. “And my deepest, darkest secret, huh?”

“Mhm.”

“Hm, well, once when I was a kid I was real pissed at my brother, so I dipped his toothbrush in the toilet and never told him.”

Carol chokes on her coffee. She grabs a napkin to dab her mouth.

“That’s a good one,” she says, coughing. “I’ll take it.” 

Daryl laughs shyly, ducking his head. 

“So what’s your deal, then?” he mutters after a beat. He hazards a glance up at her, where she’s twisting her mouth in thought.

“Be more specific,” she says.

“Can I ask the obvious thing?”

“What’s the obvious thing?”

“Why’d you decide to work with dead people?” Daryl asks, embarrassed because he’s certain she gets asked that by everyone and their dog, but wanting to know nonetheless. To her credit, she doesn’t appear annoyed. She sets the napkin in her lap and checks her watch.

“Alright, we’ve known each other for approximately forty-five minutes,” she says. “So you decide—do you want the nice answer or the truthful answer?” She looks at him expectantly, and he knits his brows together in bemusement. 

“Truthful?” he asks, suddenly unsure. 

“That your final choice?” she asks, tearing off another piece of scone. Daryl hasn’t touched his, too anxious to eat in the company of this stranger.

“Uh...I guess? Yeah?”

“Mkay,” Carol says. She holds up a finger for him to wait while she finishes her bite, and then begins, “So I used to have a daughter.”

“Oh,” Daryl says involuntarily, cringing already, but Carol shakes her head, grinning.

“Uh-uh,” she says good-naturedly. “You picked truthful, so now you have to hear it.” 

“Okay,” Daryl says, raising his hands in surrender. “Go for it. You used to have a daughter.”

“Correct. I also used to have a husband. He was, hm...what was it you asked me to call your dad?”

“An asshole?”

“That’s it. He was an asshole. Perfect descriptor.”

“Lots of different types o’ assholes,” Daryl points out. “What kind was he?”

“His favorite joke to tell at parties was, ‘What do you call a woman with two black eyes?’” She looks at Daryl expectantly, and of course he knows the punchline, no pun intended, because his daddy loved that joke too, but he’s not about to say it. That seems to be the right decision, because she nods at him in approval, and finishes it with, “‘Nothing, ‘cause you’ve already told her twice.’ That give you an idea of the type of asshole he was?”

Daryl stirs his coffee even though the sugar dissolved a long time ago.

“Sounds like the same type of asshole as the guy all over your parking lot,” he says quietly. He forces himself to look at her, and he can see understanding flash across her face. They both know implicitly what type of assholes they’ve both dealt with.

“Right,” Carol says. “Well, he was a drinker, and always insisted that he was perfectly fine to drive, and if he was by himself I never tried to fight him on it, because it wasn’t worth it. I always worried he might hurt someone else, but maybe he’d hurt himself in the process, right?”

Daryl has a sick feeling that he knows where this story is going.

“One afternoon, though, when I was laid up in bed, because he’d  _ told me _ something, I asked him to pick Sophia—that was her name—up from school. I should have known better, but he was always nicer the day after  _ telling me _ something, and never put hands on Sophia, so I foolishly thought that he’d be smart about driving around with her at three in the goddamn afternoon.” Carol takes a long drink from her mug and shrugs. “I was still passed out from the muscle relaxers when I got the call from the hospital. He was on life support. She was DOA.” 

“Christ,” Daryl mutters with a grimace.

“Tell you what, though. One good thing? I got to tell them to pull the plug on him.” 

It’s a morbid joke, but Daryl understands the feeling. There’s the tiniest part of him that regrets not being the one to find his dad—to see him lifeless and rotting and incapable of ever hurting him again.

“So what’s all that got to do with you bein’ an undertaker?” Daryl asks. 

“I’m gettin’ to it, damn,” Carol says, making Daryl snort.

“My bad.”

“Impatient much?” She flicks a sugar packet at him. “No, okay, so Sophia died, right? And I had to go through the whole ordeal of arranging a service, which was a tremendous headache, not to mention absolutely fucking heartwrenching. I was supposed to be picking out her soccer uniform, and instead I was picking out her casket. It was awful.

“But none of it was as bad as the viewing. Most of her injuries had been internal, so it was pretty easy to do an open casket. It was horrible. She didn’t look like herself at all. It was like she was made out of clay. It wasn’t my little girl, it was like someone’s science experiment, and for months afterwards I would picture her like that in my head, wondering what the hell they had done to her to make her look so inhuman like that, to the point that I finally had to research it.

“I started Googling embalming, which led to cremation, which led to other types of burials, and before I knew it, I was falling down this rabbit hole of death. And at first it started out as this morbid obsession, but after a while it became a coping mechanism. Understanding the process of death made it easier to deal with hers.

“On a whim, I sold the house me and the asshole had been living in for years, and used the money to go to mortuary school. It was incredibly empowering to have this skill, and when I graduated I decided to open my own funeral home, and that’s where I’ve been ever since. I live in a loft above the mortuary, and I help the citizens of rural Georgia deal with their dead. Three years now, coming up on four.” 

Daryl doesn’t know how to reply to all of that. He’s overwhelmed, thinking about how astronomically out of his league this woman is. 

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly. “Did I weird you out? Too much too fast?”

“No,” Daryl says honestly. “You’re uh...you’re different.” 

“Like, ‘oh god, why did I agree to spend time alone with this woman, what if she takes me back to her place and hacks me to pieces’ different?” 

“Pfft, no.”

“How about, ‘I’m kind of turned on’ different?”

Daryl lights up like a Christmas tree.

“Stop,” he mutters, taking a gulp of coffee that’s a little too hot and burns on the way down.

“Hm, that wasn’t a no,” she says. Daryl meets her eye, and he swears there’s a twinkle there. He clears his throat.

“No it wasn’t,” he agrees. 

Carol regards him up and down, making him blush under the scrutiny. She checks her watch again.

“We’re coming up on an hour of knowing each other,” she says pragmatically. “So tell me—is that long enough for me to show you my loft?” 

Daryl’s mouth goes dry  _ instantly _ .

He picks at his scone, getting crumbs on the table. 

He shrugs.

“Seems like enough time to me.” 

*

The funeral home and the crematorium are two buildings connected by a hallway, allowing the workers to move between the two freely. The funeral home is called  _ Memento Mori _ Mortuary, which translates to,  _ remember you will die _ . It’s a bit morose, but seems on brand for this woman—this stranger—who is currently leading him up a flight of winding stairs to an old-fashioned door painted a brass color. He chews on a cuticle anxiously as she fiddles around with her keys.

She takes him gently by the hand and guides him inside. The area is wide open, with high vaulted ceilings, and the spaciousness overwhelms him, and he focuses instead on her. 

Her clothes have mostly dried, and are wrinkled, still clinging tight against her body. Her hair is coming loose from its bun, frizzing out around the bobby pins. She’s got rosy lips that his eyes keep darting to, and petite hands that are suddenly sliding up the length of his chest.

“This okay?” Carol asks him. She means “this” as in everything. Is he sure he wants to be here? Is he sure she isn’t taking advantage of his emotional state?

“Yeah,” he says, half-hard already, mind not even in the same zip code of where the thoughts about his father are. 

“I don’t do this,” she tells him then. “I promise I’m usually more professional. I don’t make a habit of bringing my clients to my bed.”

“I didn’t think you did,” Daryl says honestly. Somehow his hands have found her hips. “But why’d you bring me?” Doesn’t she know that he’s a disaster and she could walk down the street and have any man she wanted if she just batted her eyes enough times? 

“I don’t know,” she says. Her fingers are working the buttons of his flannel undone. “I just like you. And I don’t like that many people. That probably means something, right?”

Daryl nods absently, trying not to shiver at the touch of her skin against his bare torso.

“I like you, too,” he says. He thinks it might sound kind of lame, but she blinks slowly at him and cups the back of his head, pushing him down gently. He gets the hint and leans in, pressing his lips against hers, heat blooming up his neck. 

“Take me to bed?” she asks against his mouth.

“Dunno where your bedroom is,” he says, making her laugh.

“I’ll take you to bed, then,” she amends. She grabs him by the belt and tugs him along, and he follows willingly, trusting her in a way he never does with anyone. She probably should scare the shit out of him, he thinks, kicking the door to her bedroom shut behind them. She feels like something that will matter way more than he’s ready for. 

He fucks her anyway.

Hell, he fucks her twice.


	2. II. ARE YOU GOING TO PULL THE TRIGGER???

Carol hasn’t messaged him.

It’s been about two weeks since she brought Daryl Dixon up to her room on a batshit whim, let him fuck her senseless, and she never called him after. She’s become  _ that _ person. Who would have pegged her as the hit and quit it type? Hell, that was only the second time she’d had sex since Ed died, and the guy in between Ed and Daryl hardly counts because, well, because he was boring as shit and she doesn’t want to count him.

It’s not that she’s avoiding Daryl because he was bad in bed, or because there was no chemistry and now it’s easier to go ghost than it is to explain it to him. In fact, it’s the contrary. Daryl hadn’t been a sex god by any stretch of the mind, but it still managed to be one of the most intense lays of her life, and that’s why she can’t call or text him. It’s not a lack of spark—it’s too much of one, and she has no interest in pursuing that. 

See, it’s simple logic:

  * Fact: Human beings die
  * Fact: People you let get close to you happen to be human beings
  * Conclusion: People you let get close to you can and will die



She’s done the whole mourning thing. She’s gone to the grief groups, she’s read the books, she’s dropped her previous life goals to become a mortician as a weird form of exposure therapy—all the usual stuff—and she’s happy. Or at least she’s content. Or at least she’s found a bit of stability for the first time in her life, and she is not about to fuck that all up for some guy, just because his shyness is cute, and he eats pussy likes it’s his last meal on Earth. 

Listen, Carol doesn’t even have a  _ pet _ . Not so much as a goddamn goldfish. The only deaths she intends to deal with are those of strangers whose families are paying her to do it, and, eventually, her own. 

She sure wouldn’t mind letting him go down on her one more time, though, she thinks, as she hovers by her front door, biting her lower lip, staring at the side table where she put the receipt he’d scribbled his number on the back of. 

Nope, not gonna go there, she tells herself, shaking her head and letting the thought tumble right on out. She leaves her loft and heads down the long, winding stairs to the entryway to the mortuary, where the sign in the window is flipped to closed, and will be for another hour. Carol finds the second set of stairs—not as many, but steeper—that take her down to the basement, which is where she finds Michonne.

“Morning,” Carol says upon entering the embalming room. Michonne looks up from the naked stiff on the table in front of her and smiles.

“Morning,” she says pleasantly. “Ms. McIntire should be ready for her viewing this afternoon once I get this orange color on her skin under control, and figure out what the hell I’m gonna do about her tits. Are you sure you can’t talk the family into something a little more modest?”

“They were insistent on the low-cut blouse,” Carol says apologetically. She tilts her head to examine Ms. McIntire’s breasts and frowns. “Her boyfriend said she paid a fortune for those, and that it’d be a crime to not put them on display.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to her implants that have moved all over the place. Did her boyfriend by chance mention how she’d feel about having one of her tits hanging out in her armpit?” 

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” Carols says, taking a seat at her computer and pulling up her daily calendar. 

“Of course I will,” Michonne says. “I’m just saying, death doesn’t care how much money you paid for your body. It’ll all be ugly in the end, and if everyone could just realize that, then I could have a lot more free time.”

“Remind me to cancel that boobjob next week, then,” Carol deadpans, not looking up from her computer as she checks her email. She opens a message with the subject line,  _ “those pics u wanted,” _ and clicks on the first attachment. At the sight of the photo she lets out a low whistle.

“Hm?” Michonne asks, dabbing foundation on Ms. McIntire’s face that has turned almost Oompa Loompa levels of orange with decay.

“You interested in a challenge?” Carol asks.

“Always,” says Michonne. “What’s the story?” 

“Abraham Ford. Army guy. Family wants an open casket and a full military service.” 

“Okay, what’s the challenge?”

“See for yourself,” Carol says, pushing away from the desk on her rolling chair so that Michonne can glance over at the screen. Michonne sucks in air between her teeth.

“Ouch. How’d it happen?”

“Bar fight. Pissed off the wrong person, I guess. The man went in on him with a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire.”

“Jesus.”

“Half his skull is caved in,” Carol says, grimacing at the photo. “This is what he’s supposed to look like,” she adds, opening the second attachment.

“Oh, I thought the square head thing was disfigurement from the blunt force trauma, but he’s just like that, huh?”

“Mm, so it would seem. What do you think? Can you do the restoration?”

Michonne scoffs.

“What kind of miracle worker would I be if I couldn’t? When’s the viewing?”

“Friday.”

“When’s Glenn picking up the body?”

“This afternoon.”

“Pfft,” Michonne says, waving a hand and turning back to Ms. McIntire. “Piece of cake.”

“As always, I am blessed to have you as my employee,” Carol says, scanning an email about a discount on bulk formaldehyde. 

“What can I say? Some artists strive for the Guggenheim, or the MoMA. I, on the other hand, fix fucked up faces of dead guys so their families can get one last goodbye.”

“Don’t forget fixing fucked up breasts,” Carol reminds her.

“Yeah,” Michonne sighs. “Maybe I can use wire to hold them in place?”

“Hey don’t look at me, you’re the expert here. I just sell caskets and do the books.”

“You did that old man’s restoration last month.”

“Yeah, and at least two people at the viewing said his nose was off-center, please never take a vacation again.”

“Just what you want to hear from your boss. ‘Please never take any time off.’” 

“Shush,” Carol says, grinning. They fall into a companionable silence, Michonne contemplating the corpse’s bust, and Carol scribbling down a tracking number for a casket she ordered.

“So have you called that guy yet?” Michonne asks out of nowhere, and Carol’s hand stills over her scratch piece of paper.

“Are you ever gonna let that go?” she asks, hiding her blush. 

“I don’t know. Are you ever gonna call him?” Michonne asks. Carol casts her a nasty glare that goes unseen.

“It was a one night stand,” she says. “Hell, it wasn’t even one night. It was a Wednesday-evening-stand. He was gone before midnight.” 

“Carol,” Michonne says, glancing over her shoulder with a stern expression with her hands holding each of Ms. McIntire’s breasts. “How long have we known each other?”

“Since mortuary school,” Carol says suspiciously, not trusting where this is going.

“And since we met in mortuary school, how many times have you gotten laid?”

“Michonne…”

“No, remind me, how many times?”

“Once,” Carol says pointedly. “Not counting Daryl. What’s your point?”

“And how many times did Tobin have to try and woo you before you’d even look the man in the eye?”

“That doesn’t count. He was bad in bed and boring beyond belief.”

“Zeke was cute, and he might as well have been a ghost for all the good his flirting with you did him. Every time we went downtown when he was bartending he gave you free drinks.” 

“If there’s a point here do you mind coming to it?” 

“My  _ point _ ,” Michonne says, leaning in closer to inspect the positioning of the right breast implant. “Is that you are not easy to seduce, Ms. Peletier, but you had this guy in your bed after a single cup of coffee together? That’s unheard of, and yet now you won’t call him. Was he really  _ that _ bad at it?”

“No, I told you he wasn’t,” Carol says, coming to Daryl’s defense even as she prays for Michonne to shut the fuck up and just let her forget him. “He wasn’t super experienced, sure, but he was...giving. Very, very giving.”

“God I love the shy ones,” Michonne says wistfully. “So eager to please.”

“Dear lord.”

“Okay, we’ve established he was good, and clearly you hit it off before you went and simply hit it, so why ghost the poor man? Rock his world and then hang him out to dry? That’s cold, babe." 

“I’m not looking for anything right now. I don’t want to give him, I dunno, expectations.” 

“I’m not saying marry him, but even Glenn noticed how much less uptight you were after you got some. Why not put friends-with-benefits on the table and see what he thinks?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think that kind of relationship would work with him.”

“Do you think he’d catch feelings?” Michonne asks. She then lets out a small gasp and smiles wide. “Or are you afraid  _ you _ would?”

“I’m done with this conversation,” Carol declares, closing out of her email and going to stand.

“A non-answer is an answer, you know that right?”

Carol puts her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes.

“I have an intake in ten minutes,” she says. “I’m going to go get ready.”

“Deflection,” Michonne says in a sing-song voice. Carol ignores her. She goes over and opens their minifridge.

“Do you have a Coke? Or something carbonated? My stomach is bothering me this morning.”

“Tara left a Sprite in with those heads the guy from the med school dropped off at the crematorium yesterday.”

“Alright,” Carol says, not missing a beat, shutting the fridge door.

“You nauseous? Maybe you’re pregnant. Then you’ll  _ definitely _ have to call him,” Michonne says with a cheeky grin. Carol scoffs.

“Don’t even joke,” she says, heading towards the stairs. On her way up she calls over her shoulder, “I expect those breasts to be perfect by noon. The family is gonna start arriving by two.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Michonne calls back. “Finest pair of tits your eyes will ever see.”

*

“You’re totally pregnant,” Michonne is saying. It’s two weeks later and Carol has her head in the trash can, upchucking the Italian sub and side salad she had for lunch.

“No I’m not,” Carol says miserably, not sure if she’s safe to stand up straight yet. She lets out a couple questionable burps, and spits up a mucusey chunk of ambiguous foodstuffs into the garbage. “I just have that stomach bug that’s going around.”

“There isn’t a stomach bug going around,” Michonne says, inserting hair plugs into today’s body, who is an ugly, elderly man whose family all but demanded he be restored to the thick-haired beauty of his youth. Carol has seen the picture of him from his youth. He was never a beauty, but they could at least give him the hair.

“Sure there is,” Carol says. She leaves the safety of her trash can and snatches a couple Kleenex out of the box on her desk. Wiping off her face she sniffles and grimaces, adding, “I think I have a piece of shredded carrot up my nose.”

“Did you and ash-dumper use a condom?” Michonne asks. She rolls over on her wheeled chair and opens the minifridge to grab a bottle of water. She hands it to Carol, who takes it with a murmured thanks.

“Of course we did,” she says after a few swallows from the bottle. “Or, I mean...for most of the time.” 

Michonne pauses mid-hair plug insertion to turn and raise an eyebrow at Carol.

“What the hell does that mean?” she asks. Carol leans her back up against her desk, her hands holding the edge. 

“We used one the first round, but the second round was a little more...I dunno, lazy and in the moment, you know? But he pulled out!”

“Cool, so you’re pregnant and probably have syphilis.”

“He  _ pulled out _ ,” Carol says again, and Michonne snorts, plugging in more hair while shaking her head.

“Listen, I know we live in an ‘abstinence only sex education’ state, but you are not that stupid, Carol.”

“I am  _ not _ pregnant, Michonne," she says, refusing to even entertain the idea.

“You’re pregnant?” 

Tara appears at the bottom of the stairs, looking Carol up and down as though trying to find evidence of this supposed indiscretion. 

“No,” Carol says.

“Yes,” Michonne says.

“I just have that stomach bug that’s going around.”

“There isn’t a stomach bug going around, is there?” Tara says.

“Oh for Christs’s sake,” Carol huffs, snatching the water bottle back up and taking another drink. There is exactly no part of her that has the patience today to deal with Michonne being ridiculous. She’s been quick to irritation this past week or so.

_ Because the people I work with are irritating, _ she thinks pointedly.  _ Not for any other reason. _

“I was gonna run to the gas station to get candy. You want me to pick you up a pregnancy test? Or like, Twizzlers or something?” Tara asks earnestly.

“No, Tara, I don’t want a pregnancy test or Twizzlers,” Carol says, voice muffled as she covers her face with her hands. “I want you to mind your own business, and then finish removing Mr. Johansen’s pacemaker so we can cremate him before closing.”

“Have you ever seen a pacemaker explode during a cremation before?” Tara asks, eyes bright with curiosity and brain clearly crowded with all the millions of different trains of thought. 

“A professor of ours once told us she had a friend who had a friend who worked at a crematorium who had all his hair singed off because he forgot to remove a pacemaker,” Michonne says. She leans back in her chair to examine her work and sighs. “Bet he still looked better than this fucker. No one mention to this guy’s wife that no amount of hair is gonna fix his face.”

“Be nice,” Carol admonishes, dropping her hands to her sides. 

“What’d that dude look like before he started to decompose?” Tara asks, peering over to see the corpse in full.

“This  _ is _ what he looked like before he started to decompose. He died at the hospital and I embalmed him not long after,” Michonne says. Tara grimaces.

“Yikes,” she says.

“Oh fuck,” Michonne says then, like she just remembered something important. She drops her hair plugs and jumps to her feet. She takes Carol by the shoulders and starts manhandling her towards the stairs.

“What the hell are you doing?” Carol asks with a bemused frown, resisting her. 

“If you’re pregnant you’re not allowed to be around any sort of embalming fluids or fumes,” Michonne explains, continuing to shove her.

“For the last time, I am not pregnant.” 

“Yeah, well, until you get a doctor’s note saying you are one hundred percent fetus free I’m not letting you breathe in or around this room.”

“You’re not even embalming anyone right now.”

“Goodbye, Carol!” 

Michonne manages to shove her to the doorway, where Tara jumps out of the way. Carol opens her mouth to protest, but Michonne cuts her off with a stern “uh-uh,” and points up the steep staircase. Carol rolls her eyes and tries not to stomp her way up to the ground level like a pissed off teenager. The last thing she hears behind her is Michonne saying, “Don’t listen to what she says. Get her a test while you’re out.”

*

Pants pooled around her ankles, Carol sits on her toilet, holding in a piss, fiddling with the plastic stick in her hands and debating whether or not she’s going to use it or not.

It’s a bit like a thief refusing to let you search their bag. If there’s nothing amiss then there’s nothing to hide. 

_ What are you trying to hide? _ she asks herself. 

Huffing in frustration, she sticks the test between her legs and pees at an awkward angle that reminds her of pissing in those little cups at the doctor’s office. She finishes up, puts the cap back on the test, washes her hands, and goes into her bedroom where she plops herself on her back on the bed, resting the test result-side down on her belly. She turns her head to look at the space beside her.

That’s where Daryl had lay after he rolled off her that first time. She can’t remember if anyone in her whole life has ever looked at her with such awe the way he did then. He’d thanked her. She smiles at the memory. The dork literally  _ thanked _ her, making her feel like she was a special privilege to have, instead of a frumpy, greying woman with a depressing backstory and a creepy job.

She really did want to call him. Right after he had left her loft, up to right this moment, she’s been dying to call him. That instant chemistry just won’t quit, and she’d be lying if she said there wasn’t a desire to figure it out. She's only human, after all.

But no, she knows better. Michonne is the closest she’ll let someone get, and even then it takes a whole lotta prodding on Michonne’s part to convince her to hang out outside of work, lest she fall victim to that whole “close interpersonal relationships” thing. 

She thinks about flipping the test over. 

She doesn’t.

This has been a good lesson in why she doesn’t interact with people on a personal level. There are always consequences, and she doesn’t have the energy for them. She doesn’t need friends, she doesn’t want a man, and she sure as hell is never,  _ ever _ , having a baby again, no matter what this test says.

She still doesn’t touch it.

Would she be obligated to tell him if she got rid of it? Like, if the test says  _ whups _ , would the right thing be to call and let him know? To what end? She doesn’t see the point in dragging him back into her life after she so rudely blocked him out of it, just to say, “Hey, we almost made a baby, but I took care of it, please don’t ever call or talk to me again for the rest of both of our lives, thanks. Hope you’re well!"

What if he guilts her? Or worse, what if he tries to be sweet and understanding, and he lulls her into a vulnerable state where she feels free and open to admit that she can’t stand the thought of being a mother after already losing a child? He’d let her cry. He seems like the type of guy who would encourage her to cry, and then would stroke her hair, and say nice things in an awkward “what-do-I-do-now?” type of way, and she’d feel this undeniable attraction towards him, and just...no. No thanks, she’ll pass. Positive test or not she is done, done,  _ done _ with Daryl Dixon.

She blows out a big breath and picks up the test.

She reads the results.

_ Shit. _

*

A small crowd of protesters is gathered outside of the clinic. Michonne parks a block away, neither she nor Carol convinced that these people are above vandalization. Michonne then leads Carol to the clinic doors, walking with the confidence and intent of a linebacker, ready to tackle anyone who tries to get in their faces.

“You’re a murderer,” a shrill woman shrieks at Carol, wielding a handmade sign that has a stock image of a baby with a gun poorly superimposed over it with the barrel pointed at its head. Below the image is a caption, written in all caps with dripping red paint, “ARE YOU GOING TO PULL THE TRIGGER???” 

“And you’re a pain in my ass. We all have our faults. Now get out of our way,” Michonne says, knocking her shoulder into the woman, creating a path for Carol to get through.

They make it into the clinic, annoyed yet unscathed, and Michonne hovers protectively while Carol checks in at the front desk. Carol wants to tell her to ease off—tell her she can handle herself just fine—except there’s a part of her that really appreciates the support, and that part is winning out at the moment.

The clinic is a bit like the DMV, in that it is drab, grey, and joy-sucking, with disinterested staff, and patrons who seem like they’d rather be anywhere else. Carol and Michonne sit down on hard, plastic chairs that hurt Carol’s tailbone.

“How does this place feel more lifeless than the mortuary?” Carol asks quietly, glancing around the room. Adjacent to them there is a girl no older than nineteen who is chewing her nails down to the quick, and Carol suddenly feels very old and out of place. “We literally work with dead people.”

“Think we should have told those douchebags outside about those babies you cremated yesterday?” Michonne whispers in response, and Carol bites back a laugh. This doesn’t seem like the type of place you’re supposed to laugh in. 

Carol skims the paperwork in her lap, detailing what's going to happen to her. She's early enough in her pregnancy that it doesn't need to be surgical. All the doctors are going to do are perform an ultrasound, tell her some things she already knows, and send her on her way with a couple pills and care instructions.

Easy peasy.

Except for whatever reason,  _ easy _ isn't the word she'd use to describe it anymore. The entire time she was wading through all the pre-procedure rigamarole before being allowed to attend her appointment she'd been somewhat indifferent, or at least certain in her decision.

But now that she's actually here she's not so sure. Maybe it's the reality of the entire stupid situation sinking in, but a part inside her blooms suddenly, telling her to run.

She doesn't run, of course, but instead shifts around in her chair, bouncing a knee up and down, both wanting and dreading being called back by the nurse.

"Nervous?" Michonne asks.

"I guess," Carol mumbles, and Michonne frowns.

"Are you having doubts?" she asks, and Carol averts her eyes as she shrugs.

"It's all the normal sort of thoughts," she says, staring at a poster across from her talking about the importance of regular pap smears. When was the last time she had a pap smear? she wonders idly, trying to focus on anything else. Beside her she can feel Michonne's gaze fixed on her. Michonne then sighs and folds her hands in her lap.

"You know, I had an abortion once," she says then. Carol is surprised enough to tear herself away from her pap smear distraction.

"You did?"

"Mhm," Michonne says. "I was twenty, and in a relationship with an idiot, and neither of us were ready to be parents. And I remember sitting in a room like this, and I was feeling all sorts of things—fear, nervousness, guilt—but the one thing I didn't feel was doubt. I didn't doubt my decision. I couldn't, because I knew that once it was done there was no going back, and so I had to be sure it was what I wanted."

"I can't have a baby, Michonne," Carol says, shaking her head. "Not after Sophia. It's too much."

"You don't have to keep it," Michonne reminds her gently. "There's another option."

"God, giving it up would be such a hassle, though. I would have to find adoptive parents, I'd have to go through the whole pregnancy, I'd have to avoid the embalming room, which is where I do all of my work...Not to mention, I'd have to tell Daryl. What if eighteen years down the road the kid tracks him down and he never even knew they existed? That wouldn't be fair, he'd have to know."

"It wouldn't be a walk in the park," Michonne agrees. "But if you think you'd regret doing this, then maybe it's something to consider."

"I'm just being dumb," Carol says. "I've always been okay with this sort of thing. Hell, I donate to Planned Parenthood every year. I don't see why it should be a big deal to me now all of a sudden."

Michonne takes Carol's hand in hers and gives it a squeeze.

"You've seen an awful lot of death, Carol, and you aren't singlehandedly ruining the feminist movement if this feels like even more death. This isn't a philosophical debate about when life begins, or whether or not you're a 'murderer.' This is about  _ you _ and what  _ you're _ comfortable with." Michonne angles her head to make Carol look her in the eye and gives her a kind smile. "That's why it's called pro-choice."

Carol groans, taking her hand back and scrubbing her face.

"This shouldn't even be happening," she says. "I should've known better."

"Shit happens, babe. All you can do is deal with it."

Carol lets her hands fall to her lap like weights.

"It feels wrong somehow," she admits in a whisper. "Like I'm given the opportunity to make life and instead I go back to what I know—to what's comfortable—and that's death. I mean it, though, I can't keep the baby. No matter what."

"And you don't have to," Michonne says. "Why don't you let them give you the pills, and then you decide if you want to take it or not. And listen—if you decide you don't want to? I'll be right there doing my damnedest to keep the mortuary running smoothly, okay? You don't have to worry about that. Tara will be able to do embalmings by the end of the month, and Glenn is always on board to help. It'll be okay. No matter what you decide, it'll be okay. You got that?"

"Yeah," Carol whispers. She huffs a sigh and leans forward, resting her forehead on her knees. Michonne rubs her back, and doesn't let up until they call Carol's name.

*

Carol is sitting in bed. On one side of her is the pill bottle, and on the other is her cell phone. She's been sitting here for a good forty five minutes, debating. The pros and cons list in her head has been written and rewritten a thousand times already.  _ Pick one, damnit. _ She's getting annoyed with herself for being indecisive.

It'd be hard—unbelievably hard—to go through with a pregnancy and not go home with the baby at the end. That pain would take a long time to scab over.

On the other hand, at least she would have the peace of mind that she'd given life to something. It seems all she's good for since the accident is caring for the dead.

She picks up the pill bottle; shakes it to make it rattle; thumbs the cap.

She puts it aside and takes her phone in her hand.

That number on the back of the receipt is drilled into her head from reading it over and over on her way out the door every morning, so she doesn't even need to look at it in order to plug it into a new message.

_ Hey, it's Carol. The mortician? We had sex? Ring a bell? _ she types, nails clacking on the touchscreen.  _ Listen. Can we talk? _

A minute goes by. Then another.

Carol presses send.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> general yada yada disclaimer that the views of abortion in this are reflective of the characters and aren't meant as commentary on anything, and if you have opinions, either in agreement or disagreement, that's baller, but keep them out of the comments plz and thnx
> 
> anyway! looks like i wrote another chapter of this. plz don't tell "gas gauge" i have a side chick. what she doesn't know won't hurt her...
> 
> that's all i got. thnx for the response to this so far. it's always nice when ppl encourage your self-indulgent bullshit. it makes it seem like less of a way to avoid real responsibilities, and more like a way to entertain the masses, you know?
> 
> c u whenever i update this again, or on mon/tue when i post "gas gauge" if you're a reader.
> 
> toodles mon noodles,  
> -diz


	3. III. Get it Out of Your System

“So I was patrolling south 27th street, which is a real bitch of a beat to get, right? We all hate it, because it’s right next to that abortion clinic, and there’s always something about to go down with all those protesters harassing people. But there I am, drinking my coffee and keeping an eye out, when the most attractive woman I’ve ever seen in my life comes out of the clinic with her friend, and one of the protesters gets up in her space, and like, I wasn’t close enough to hear what this guy said, but it must have been nasty, because before I could blink, this beautiful woman is pulling back a fist, and then just _decks_ the mother in the face.”

Rick is sitting in Daryl’s armchair, feet propped up on the ottoman, while he nurses a beer. Daryl himself is sat in the middle of his couch, arms spread out with his elbows resting on the back cushions, his own beer dangling in his right hand. He smirks at his friend and takes a pull from the bottle, before asking, “What’d you do?”

“What do you think I did?” Rick asks, cracking a sheepish grin. “I let her off with a warning.”

“‘Cause she was hot?”

“Please, you know the guy probably deserved it.” At Daryl’s raised eyebrow, Rick shrugs and says, “But, I mean, her being hot certainly didn’t hurt.”

Daryl snorts, leaning over to set his beer on a coaster, as if his whole coffee table isn’t covered in circular stains from all the drinks his brother leaves sitting around. 

Speaking of…

Merle chooses that moment to emerge from his bedroom, scrubbing at his eyes with a yawn. It is not morning. It’s not even afternoon. It’s well into the evening right now.

“You pick up any more cereal, man? And I mean not that granola shit you keep eatin’? What’s with you tryna be all heart healthy an’ shit?” he asks in lieu of a greeting. He drops his hand from his face and freezes at the sight of Rick there in the living room. Merle curls his lip into a sneer and says, “Baby brother, the hell I tell you ‘bout bringin’ vermin into this house?”

“Pleasure as always, Merle,” Rick says cheerfully, raising his beer at him. Merle’s nostrils flare.

“And you gave him our booze?” he asks, disgusted. “Hope you didn’t give him anythin’ to eat. You know once you feed ‘em you ain’t ever able to get rid of ‘em.”

Rick and Merle are not friends. However, it’s their tenuous relationship that led to Daryl developing a friendship with Rick. Daryl had met Rick back when he was a rookie cop, and they would shoot the shit whenever Daryl came by the station to post bail to get Merle out of the drunk tank—an unfortunately common occurrence back then. Over time, Rick’s fondness for the younger of the Dixon brothers has gotten Merle out of more than a few tight spots that other cops in town wouldn’t be as kind about. Consequently, Merle owes Rick several debts, and he _hates_ it, so Daryl keeps Rick around, if only because it forces Merle to keep the illegal activity to a minimum when there’s a literal cop in the house.

“I’m goin’ out,” Merle announces, after opening the fridge, scanning the lackluster contents, and slamming it shut again. “A man can’t even be comfortable wakin’ up in his own house no more. Gotta have damn Officer Friendly monitorin’ everythin’.”

“See, the first problem there is that this is _my_ house,” Daryl says from his spot on the couch, watching his brother mildly as he shoves his feet into his muddy boots lying by the door. “Second thing is that it’s seven in the evenin’, so most all people are up by now.”

“Had a long night,” Merle grunts, tucking his laces into his boots instead of tying them.

“You mean you been in bed with a hangover all day while I been out bustin’ my ass at work. How’s that job hunt goin’, by the way?” Daryl asks pointedly.

“Ain’t no one wants to hire me. They’re all prejudiced is what they is.”

“No, see, you gotta actually turn in the applications in order for them to call you,” Daryl says. In response, Merle flips both Daryl and Rick the bird, and stomps out of the house, letting the screen door bang behind him.

Rick shakes his head at the door Merle stormed out of and asks Daryl, “How’s he been doin’ lately?”

“Oh he’s sunshine and roses,” Daryl says. “His face just lights up the place so much I hardly even notice all them moldy dishes he keeps throwin’ in my sink.”

Rick laughs, and asks, more seriously, “Really, though. He been alright?” 

“I guess,” Daryl sighs. 

“Has he been using?”

“I don’t think so. I think that’s part of why he’s so irritable all the damn time. He gets so pissy I almost wanna smoke him up myself just to get him to shut up.”

“Probably don’t,” Rick says, and Daryl hums non-committedly, casting his friend a small smile. “You thought about giving him a hard move out deadline?”

“Not yet. I’m tryna be supportive.”

“He’s your brother, you want to take care of him, I get that. Just don’t let him walk all over you because you’re more forgiving than most. You got a good setup here; don’t let him take advantage of it.”

“Oh yeah, I live like a king,” Daryl scoffs. He gestures around at his rundown, little two bedroom house, with an old 70s design, kitchen appliances that aren’t of this century, and a burn mark from an iron imprinted in the orange shag carpet that’s been there for at least twenty years. “One hell of a life I live.”

He means to say it in jest, but it comes out kind of bitter. The truth of the matter is that he hasn’t given his brother any hard deadlines because, frankly, obnoxious as he is, Daryl appreciates the company. Rick is Daryl’s only friend outside of casual work acquaintances, and it’s not like he has a woman. He doesn’t even think about women. Or a specific woman. What’s a woman? Never heard of one.

Right then, Daryl’s phone buzzes loudly on top of the scuffed-up coffee table. No one texts him unless it’s Merle asking for a ride or money, or his boss asking him to pick up more hours, so Daryl’s not going out of his mind with excitement when he reaches over and picks up his cell. The message is from a number he doesn’t recognize, and he opens it up and immediately blanches. 

The anxiety on Daryl’s face must be palpable, because Rick asks, in a worried tone, “Everything okay? What is it?”

Daryl doesn’t answer right away. He reads the short message few more times.

He’d given up on her.

He’d pushed her out of his mind.

That’s a lie.

He pretended he’d pushed her out of his mind.

No, still not totally true.

He thinks about her somewhere between three to four hundred times a day—a little more frequently during private shower time—but that’s a significant decrease from the six thousand and twelve times a day he was thinking about her that first week, when he still had an inkling of hope that she might have considered him worth calling, if only for a booty call, but no such luck.

Except, here she is in his inbox, over a month later, and Daryl is terrified.

“Tell me,” he says slowly to Rick. “Is there any good reason why a woman you had a one night stand with and then got ghosted by would reach out to you a month later asking you to ‘talk’?” 

Daryl glances up to see Rick looking grim.

“This is the first time she’s reached out since you slept together?” he asks.

“Mhm.”

“And she explicitly said she wanted to ‘talk’?” 

“Yep.”

An off-center beat of silence goes by.

“Shit, man,” Rick says. “She’s totally pregnant.”

*

_Le Café des Morts_ is as weird and off-putting as it was the first time he was here. The coffee shop is trying too hard, its dark-humored aesthetic bordering on becoming a parody of itself.

But then, Daryl thinks—as he runs his fingers through his hair, trying to comb out any knots, and checks his shirt for any leftover drywall dust, as if he’s ever in his life given a shit about that sort of thing—the coffee shop isn’t the only one that’s trying too hard.

He’s been shitting himself so much over the past twenty-four hours that there’s nothing left to shit, propelling him into a strange sort of calm, not unlike how hypothermia victims start to feel a nice warmth right before they freeze to death. It’s complicated, isn’t it? There are a lot of things to process, and Daryl’s bad enough at handling one emotion at a time, let alone several. And holy shit are there several.

Before all this, Daryl had slept with two women in his whole thirty plus years of life, and one of them he’s ninety-three percent certain Merle paid for because he was convinced his little brother needed to get his dick wet. Daryl is _not_ the type of guy women take back to their beds an hour after meeting him, especially after he’s dumped human ash all over their parking lots. Unless that’s been the secret all along? Are women turned on by that? Because Daryl’s not _that_ attached to Merle…

Nah, it wouldn’t matter. He could pour cremated remains outside of the Playboy Mansion to get all the models inside hot and heavy for him, and it wouldn’t matter, because he’s imprinted on Carol like a goddamn duckling. 

Then there’s the whole issue of why she wants to meet up to “talk” with him in the first place. Daryl’s been through every conceivable reason why she’s arranged this rendezvous, and has amassed a short list of possibilities:

  1. There are legal ramifications he was unaware of in regards to spilling dead people on public property and now he is being sued. (Wouldn’t he know that by now, though? And would she really press charges? Are there even charges to press? God, he gets into some weird situations.)
  2. She mixed up his father’s ashes with someone else’s, and he actually dumped some poor family’s grandma out into the rain. (Could _he_ press charges for that? He wouldn’t, of course, but like, theoretically?) 
  3. She neglected to tell him about her abundance of STDs and he’s now riddled with syphilis and HIV. (Unlikely. Hopefully.)
  4. The memory of their time together has been eating her alive, and she’s come to the conclusion that he has ruined her for other men, and now she has no choice but to profess her undying love for him. (Yeah right.) 



No matter how he spins it, he keeps coming back to the most likely conclusion: He has knocked her up. 

Listen. Daryl knows the importance of safe sex. Maybe he grew up smack dab in the middle of the Bible Belt and got the “abstinence only” lecture in school like the rest of ‘em, but he grew up surrounded by enough dumbass dudes with unintentional baby momma’s all across the deep south for him to learn the value of a rubber.

But.

The two of them had been kissing side-by-side in bed, all slow and deep, while pressed together with damp, naked skin, and like...he slipped it in, okay? And maybe for a split second it occurred to him that it wasn’t the best idea, but then she made this _noise_ , all feral and needy, and he forgot about anything that wasn’t her pussy clenched around him.

He’s only human, damnit.

Plus he pulled out.

Mostly.

Maybe a second or two late.

Fucking hell, she is definitely pregnant, and he’s an idiot for being the least bit surprised, but it’s one of those “you don’t think about it until it happens to you” types of situations.

Is she going to want to keep it? That’s the problem with fucking someone you know about as well as you know the grocery store clerk at your regular supermarket. He didn’t think to ask her about her views on abortion while he was tongue-deep inside her. If she does decide she wants to keep it, then he’ll be all in, of course. Sure, the mere idea of it is turning his bowels to liquid, but there are enough deadbeat daddies in this world, and he doesn’t intend on becoming one of them.

Daddies. He’d be a daddy. Good god, what a joke that is. He has exactly one houseplant at home, and it died about seven months ago, and last he checked, there were actual cobwebs hanging off the dead leaves, and now he might be held responsible for keeping a _human being_ alive?

Maybe he’ll get lucky and it’ll be the syphilis/HIV option.

He’s on his third cup of stress coffee—which is doing nothing but making his anxiety worse and filling his bladder—when she walks into the shop, all poised and ethereal as the first time they met, and he chides himself for instantly remembering what she tastes like.

(Way better than the orange pecan scones over in the display case up front, and those scones are pretty damn good.)

She spots him right away, and he gets to his feet, like he’s rising for the entrance of a judge. _“Yes, hello your Honor, did we happen to make a baby when we fucked like rabbits a few weeks ago, also could you refresh my memory on your last name?”_ The table jostles as he bangs his knees into it, his stress coffee sloshing out of the mug, and Jesus Christ, does he have to spill _everything_ around her? Coffee, corpse, semen…

“Hi,” Carol says, approaching him and gratefully not mentioning how unbelievably awkward he is.

“Hi,” Daryl says, chewing on a nail. “Can I get you something?” Before she can answer, he pulls his wallet out of his pocket. He immediately drops it, then leans down to pick it up, then knocks into his chair, making it make an awful scraping sound, and then catches it right before it crashes to the ground. Grabbing the wallet and straightening up, he clears his throat and tries very hard not to think about how hot his cheeks are right now. He watches her struggle to swallow a laugh.

“Uh, I’m alright, but thank you,” she says, her grin only partially suppressed. 

“Right, well...let me know?”

“Alright.”

“Right.”

“Um.” She clicks her tongue. “Should we sit?” 

“Yeah, for sure,” Daryl says quickly. He takes a seat and then snatches a few napkins from the dispenser on the table, laying them over top of the spilled coffee. The paper of the napkins is thin and unabsorbent, and does nothing but serves to smear the coffee around. Giving up, he shoves the balled up, wet napkins off to the side and folds his hands in his lap where they can do no more harm, and tries to still his legs, which are bouncing on their own accord. Carol, graceful as an angel, takes the seat across from him and pushes her loose curls back behind her ears.

“So,” she says after an awkward beat of silence passes between them.

“Yeah, um...how’s business been?” Daryl asks, kicking himself for his stupid attempt at small talk. _How_ did he ever get into her pants?

“Oh, you know, steady. Pretty good job security, the death industry. That and working for the IRS.”

“Why the IRS?”

“‘Cause the only two things in life that are certain are death and taxes?” At Daryl’s blink she waves a dismissive hand and says, “Listen, I’m sorry I never called.”

“Hey, no, it’s totally fine, it didn’t bother me at all,” Daryl lies. “Not like, ‘cause I didn’t wanna hear from you. If you’d have called that woulda been...cool? But you didn’t, which is fine, of course. And if you had, that woulda been fine, too. Not that you’re just _fine_ . You’re more than fine, but I don’t mean in a creepy, stalker way. You didn’t owe me a call or anythin’, it’s chill that you don’t like me like that. Not that I _don’t_ like you like that, but I can also _not_ if that’s better for you, and Jesus Christ, please help me shut the fuck up.” Daryl’s rambling comes to a pathetic end, and he prays for the floor to swallow him whole.

“It wasn’t you,” Carol says, and she’s got that damn _sincerity_ in her voice again that makes Daryl’s heart squeeze all funny. “Not to pull the ‘it’s not you, it’s me,’ cliche, but I’m just shit at…” She gestures between the two of them. “... _This._ I’m better with the sort of relationships I make at work.”

“You...you work with dead people.”

“Yeah, exactly. You’d be amazed at how low dead people’s expectations are. It’s great.”

Daryl cracks a small smile that she returns.

“I ain’t exactly known for my great relationship skills myself,” he admits. “Never tried scouting out the mortuary, though. You got anyone back there I might have a chance with?” 

“Hm, Mrs. Davis was a looker, and we buried her husband last year so you don’t have to worry about that. And I’m sure my embalmer can ge that post-mortem bloating to go down. Unless you’re into that?”

“Mm, never given it much thought.”

They meet each other’s gazes and crack up, the tension between them easing. Carol reaches over and picks up a sugar packet and starts fiddling with it. Daryl ducks his head and decides he might as well get it over with.

“Last I checked, though, I ain’t a stiff, so...why the coffee date?” 

He hazards a glance up at her and sees her knit her brows together. She folds and unfolds the corner of the little pink packet with her fingers that have blunt nails with cracked, pale blue polish on them. She draws her lower lip in between her teeth, and Daryl, recognizing all the tell-tale signs of anxiety, puts her out of her misery.

“Are you gonna keep it?” he asks softly. Carol snaps her head up and stares at him with wide eyes. He shrugs sheepishly and waits for her to piece together that he _knows_. A full thirty seconds pass before she speaks.

“I went to the clinic to get rid of it, but...I couldn’t go through with it.”

“Alright,” Daryl says, feigning being cool, calm, and collected, as acid builds up in the back of his throat.

“I also probably can’t go back there even if I wanted to, because I took my friend with me for moral support, and when we were leaving she punched one of the protesters in the face, right in front of a cop. The only reason she didn’t get arrested was because I think the officer thought she was hot.”

“Wait, that was…” Daryl trails off, deciding to bookmark that conversation until they’ve sorted out the more pressing issue at hand. “Never mind. So you’re gonna have it. That’s fine. Not that you need my permission or anything, I just mean that I’m okay with it, and…” He cuts himself off before he goes into another rambling tailspin. He takes a steadying breath and says, slower, “What do you need from me?”

Carol wets her bottom lip with her tongue and shakes her head.

“Nothing,” she says, and Daryl frowns.

“I ain’t gonna be that type of guy that leaves you high and dry. I’m half-responsible here. I’ll step up to the plate.”

“I know you would,” Carol says with a kind smile. “But you don’t need to. I’m not keeping it.”

Daryl furrows his brow, confused.

“But I thought you said…”

“I’m not getting an abortion, but I’m not keeping it either. I’m giving it up for adoption.”

Daryl blinks, totally thrown. Of all the possible outcomes he ran through on repeat, this is not one he ever considered. His stomach does a weird flip as he takes this news in. In his silence, Carol continues.

“I’ve come to terms with my daughter’s death—I’ve found ways to cope, weird as they may be—but the thought of having another baby after what I went through? It’s too much. I’ll find it a nice home, and will rest easy knowing that I gave it a good life, but I’m not raising it myself.” 

“I get that,” Daryl says slowly, because of course he does. There’s nothing worse than losing a child, he’s sure, and he’d never argue with her to try and force her to reopen all those wounds, but...something isn’t sitting right here. He imagines some random couple taking his baby, and then spending the rest of his life knowing the kid is out there—probably wondering about him, too, and wondering why he gave them up—and the thought makes him nauseated.

“What are you thinking?” Carol asks, and Daryl realizes he’s been quiet for a long time.

“Don’t give it up,” he finds himself saying. “I’ll take it.”

A ringing silence falls over them. Carol looks at him like he’s sprouted a giant penis in the middle of his forehead like a unicorn horn.

“What?” she says finally.

“I dunno, just...it’s mine, right? So it should be with me.” 

Carol opens and closes her mouth several times, like she’s trying and failing to find the words.

“Daryl...you don’t have to do that. I need you to understand, I don’t want anything to do with it.”

“I ain’t askin’ you to.”

“Yeah, but...I don’t know. It’s different than giving it up for adoption, isn’t it? Leaving you to be a single dad while I go full deadbeat?”

“You wouldn’t be a deadbeat,” Daryl says, meaning it. “I get why you can’t do it, and I’d never fault you for that, but like...if there’s a choice, shouldn’t they be with blood? And like, I don’t want someone I don’t know raisin’ my kid.” 

Carol keeps her unicorn-penis-horn expression.

“You really want a baby?” 

Daryl considers the question. He’s never thought kids would be in the cards for him, so he’s never bothered to think about his feelings on the matter. He doesn’t _not_ want a baby? Is that an adequate answer? The thought scares the ever-loving-shit out of him, sure, but not as much as the thought of not knowing if his own flesh and blood is being taken care of. The only way he can know for certain that the baby won’t end up with someone like the guy that some errand boy got saddled with sweeping out of a mortuary parking lot is if he’s there to ensure it himself.

“I want _this_ baby,” he says finally. “I wanna make sure it’s taken care of.” 

Carol blows out a big breath. 

“That’s your right, I guess. Legally, I mean. Kinda throws a wrench in how I figured this all would go, but it’s not like I’m gonna tell you that you can’t have your own baby. Take the night, though. Take a couple. Think on it hard, okay? It’s a big decision, and I need you to be sure.”

He is sure, but he tells her he will anyway. She laughs, somewhat hysterical, and leans back in her uncomfortable, wiry chair.

“This isn’t how you expect this sort of conversation to go,” she says. “Most guys would be thrilled to know they’re off the hook.”

“Yeah, well, most guys are dicks,” Daryl mutters, and she hums in agreement.

“The bar is so low it’s nearly on the ground, but I won’t lie—seeing a man wanting to step up like this? It’s kind of hot.”

Carol seems to realize what she said right after she says it, and goes red in the cheeks. Daryl’s face mirrors hers, and they both stare determinedly at the table.

“We can’t be involved like that, of course” she says eventually, addressing the big-ass elephant hanging out with them. “Not if you’re going to take this baby and let me sign over my rights. The more distance we put between us the better. For a cleaner break, you know?”

“Yeah,” Daryl says to the table. “For sure. I get that.” 

“Not because it’s personal. Obviously we have some pretty intense chemistry, but we’ll just have to, I dunno? Ignore it?” 

“Right,” Daryl says, ruminating on the phrase “pretty intense chemistry”. 

They look up at the same moment and lock eyes. She twirls a strand of hair around her finger. Daryl swallows hard. 

*

“We can’t be involved like this, starting _now_ ,” Carol says from beside him in her bed. Daryl nods, catching his breath, resting his hand on his bare chest. “We didn’t do anything wrong here. It was just something we needed to get out of our systems. That’s all.” She seems to be saying this more to herself than to him.

They lay in silence, counting cracks in the ceiling.

“Hey, Carol?” Daryl asks after a while.

“Yeah?” 

“...Is it out of your system now?” 

“No,” she says, and takes him by the arm, pulling him back on top of her. Daryl ducks under the blanket and kisses his way down her body.

You know.

Just to get it out of his system.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the holiday week, in lieu of a "gas gauge" chapter, i'm giving y'all a "romancing the undertaker" chapter, and then a Super Exciting Holiday Special "scrap metal" oneshot, probably by christmas eve (i.e. later today as i just realized it's 230 in the morning), christmas day at the latest, that will take place in between "check engine light" and "gas gauge". if you don't read those fics, ignore this update, it is irrelevant to your life going forward. 
> 
> anyways, happy holidays, whatever those holidays may be for you. i'm very grateful for each and every one of you
> 
> besos xoxo,  
> -diz


	4. IV. The Search For Mr. Dunlap

There’s a woman wailing in Carol’s intake room, and Carol is trying very hard not to think about how badly she needs to throw up. Bad for business, that is, barfing on the carpet while a client shoves balled up tissues against her face and blows snot into them while her husband rubs her back with that  _ look _ .

Carol fucking hates that look. The one where the person’s eyes are all soft and worried, their brows knitted together, their lips slanted like a literal :/ emoticon. The Sympathy Face. She hates it both because she’s forced to wear it so often she’s afraid her face is going to stick like that one of these days, and because she’s been at the receiving end of it and wanted to punch every last person who casted it her way.

“She still had so much life left to live,” the woman sobs in regards to her dead mother. The chronic lifetime abuse of cigarettes and white wine suggest otherwise, but Carol doesn’t say so.

“At least I’m sure her last thoughts were of how much she loved you,” says her husband.

Her last thoughts were probably more along the lines of, “Oh Christ, oh shit, my chest hurts, oh fuck, I can’t breathe!” But Carol keeps that one to herself as well.

She’s good at that—pretending she’s not thinking what she is. Like how right now her face isn’t betraying at all the fact that her brown sugar Cream of Wheat and black tea breakfast is trying really hard to make a reappearance. People in this room often wish for resurrections, but she would prefer it if her food didn’t rise up again, thank you very much.

But her accidental house guest thinks otherwise.

That’s what she’s been calling it. The word “baby” is too weird; too intimate. The accidental house guest, the party crasher, the little embryo that could—it’s all better than constantly saying “it,” right?

“Do you have any thoughts on what kind of casket you’d like for your mother?” Carol asks, using the Sympathy Voice, which is worse than the Sympathy Look, but both are expected of her in this line of work. During every intake there’s a part of Carol that wants to put her hands on her knees, lean forward, and say, “Look, this fucking sucks for everyone involved. You don’t want to be here, I’m frankly more interested in your dead mother/father/brother/sister/estranged great-aunt than I am in selling you glorified boxes, so why don’t you just pick something you can afford and I’ll do the rest, yeah?”

That, however, is not how one garners a profit and keeps a business afloat, so for the third time, Carol keeps her thoughts to herself and lays down a catalogue of this year’s hottest looks for the dead to go to their final resting place in. Guilt trips all neatly packaged in one convenient place. Did you really love your mother if you’re not willing to drop twenty thousand dollars on a corpse carton no one but a decomposing body will ever see again? It’s disgusting, and Carol knows it, and it’s by far the worst part of her job. She wants to work with the dead and make them like the way their family remembers them. She wants to give the bereaved a goodbye that means something, instead of giving them images to haunt their nightmares like the waxy face of Sophia did to her. But to get to that point, she has to do this part, and so with great reluctance, and even greater nausea, she suggests the onyx casket from the Divinity collection, fit with a silver finish, and 18 gauge stainless steel.

It’s around minute thirteen of her clients’ debate about the merits of white satin interior versus a red velvet one that Carol’s accidental house guest makes an executive decision regarding the contents of their host’s stomach. That decision is: “We don’t want it.” 

With as much grace one can muster when the taste of partially digested Cream of Wheat is inching up your esophagus, Carol gets to her feet and says, calmly, “Can the two of you please excuse me for a moment?”

“I want to put mom in her favorite Sunday church dress, which is green, but Chad here is insisting that the red velvet is the better option. Do you think that would make it look too, I dunno, Christmasy?” the woman asks, eyes wet and earnest, like she didn’t even hear Carol’s question. 

In response, Carol spins around and grabs the small trash can full of snotty, tear-filled tissues sat by the table, and yarfs into it like a college frat boy after fifteen jello shots and a couple shotgunned beers.

Once everything that was inside is forced, most unfortunately, outside, Carol takes a breath to compose herself, and sets the trash can down gingerly. With poise, she plucks a tissue from the box, wipes off her mouth, straightens her shirt, and folds her hands together in front of her. 

“Just so we’re clear,” she says with absolute professionalism. “That was not commentary on your color choices. I’m sure your mother would appreciate any decisions you make in regards to her celebration of life, and you should follow your heart.” She clears her throat, mouth thick with excess saliva. “Please, continue your conversation. I’m just going to step out for a moment.” 

She picks the trash can back up, and carries the bucket of her own sick away from the shocked and grieving couple, leaving them behind her in the intake room. Carol barks at Tara to go check on them for her, while she tries to rein in her embarrassment.

“Oh dude, green on red? You sure? That’ll be real Christmasy, don’t you think?” Carol hears from the other room.

Sighing, she puts a hand on her belly and shakes her head.

“You’re really making a mess of things, you know that?” she asks her accidental house guest, but there’s no bite to her tone. The accidental house guest didn’t ask to be here, after all. Still, if this is how much trouble they’re causing already, what are they going to be like once they’re born? Scraping chunky Cream of Wheat out of her trash can, Carol wonders, not for the first time, if Daryl has the faintest clue of what he’s in for.

*

“Okay, slight problem,” Glenn says, banging through the mortuary’s front door, the little bell on top of it jingling as he rushes over and slams his hands on the front desk, breathing hard. Carol, who’s standing behind said desk and digging through her purse for a ginger candy to suck on, startles. 

“Alright,” she says tentatively. “What problem?”

“I lost Mr. Dunlap,” Glenn says in a rush. Carol blinks.

“Come again?” she asks.

“Mr. Dunlap. The one I was supposed to pick up from the hospital after they finished up the organ harvest? I lost him. Well. Lost isn’t the right word. ‘Mixed him up’ would be a better way of putting it.”

Carol sets her purse aside, a candy in her hand. She squints at Glenn.

“Mixed him up?” she repeats slowly. “Mixed him up with  _ what _ ?”

“Okay, so, Tara was helping me unload him into the crematorium, right? But when we opened the box, instead of Mr. Dunlap, we found a CPR practice dummy.”

“I’m sorry, what?” 

“Yeah, so of course I went back to the hospital, because clearly there had been some sort of mixup, and a different dude was on shift, and he told me that all the morning packages had already been picked up. I asked him if they were shipping out any CPR test dummies, and he told me that he wouldn’t be surprised, because sometimes they loan those out to schools when they have first aid units in health class, which is all to say, I think our packages got switched.” 

“So you’re telling me that some school currently has Mr. Dunlap’s body?”

“Maybe?” Glenn says sheepishly, and then amends, “Probably.” 

“Glenn…” Carol pops the candy into her mouth and rolls it around her tongue, choosing her next words carefully. “What in the everloving fuck have you done, you absolute moron? You’re supposed to double check the package  _ before  _ you bring it back here.” 

Glenn winces.

“Yeah, I know, I know, but the guy was in a rush and was super irritable, and it didn’t occur to me that he might have brought me the wrong package, because it’s pretty damn hard to mistake a corpse for something else.” Carol stares daggers at him in silence and he holds his hands up in surrender, nodding. “I know,” he says again. “Look, I tried to get him back, but the other guy wouldn’t tell me who the other package was for. He said it was against policy to reveal other people’s private information, so the person would have to return it to the hospital themselves in order to make the trade. I explained the situation, but he told me, ‘that sounds like a you problem,’ and went back inside to take his lunch break.” 

Carol rubs her temples with a long-suffering sigh. As she’s contemplating whether or not she’d be able to pull off Glenn’s murder and still manage to get his family to pay for his funeral at the mortuary so that she could at least profit off of his idiocy, the bell to the door jingles again, and Daryl walks in, wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut off, looking all hot and sweaty from a day’s work, and Carol is  _ over it _ . 

It, meaning everything.

“I’m early, sorry,” Daryl says before Carol can get in a word. “I know the appointment ain’t for a while yet, but I got done at work and thought I’d come by and see if you needed anythin’ or wanted lunch or somethin’, though, now that I think about it, you pro’ly already ate, huh? It’s almost two. And I pro’ly shoulda gone home to shower…” He trails off, looking down at himself like he just now realized he’s filthy. A rosy pink blooms across his cheeks, and Carol wants to chuck him off a cliff for being so goddamn endearing.

“No, it’s good you’re here early, because I need your help with something,” she says. Daryl perks up like an excitable dog at the prospect of receiving a task. 

“Yeah, anythin’, you name it,” he says quickly. Carol shoulders her purse and snatches her keys out of her pocket.

“Good,” she says. “I need your help tracking down a missing dead body.” 

*

Carol knew it was a bad idea inviting Daryl to come to her first OB appointment, but he’d asked if he could be as involved as possible, and what was she gonna do? Tell him no? When all is said and done, this accidental house guest is  _ his _ .

This is turning out to be a bad idea for other reasons than she expected, however, as she maneuvers the mortuary’s big, mostly windowless van out of the parking lot, Daryl sat beside her in the passenger seat. It’s not a pedo van, obviously, but it  _ is  _ a refrigerated corpse pick-up van, which, while objectively better, is still closer to the top on the list of creepy vehicles.

“Tell me again what we’re doin’?” Daryl asks. Carol catches him glancing behind him and guesses he’s probably thinking about all of the corpses that have been chauffeured back there. 

“We’re going to go find out who picked up Mr. Dunlap’s body before some poor teacher tries to teach kids CPR on a real dead body.” 

“Mm, yeah, CPR pro’ly won’t do him much good no more,” Daryl mutters, and Carol cracks a smile in spite of herself.

“Especially because the hospital just got done harvesting all his organs.” At the look Daryl casts her, she explains, “Organ donor. Not a whole lot of point in mouth-to-mouth if the person’s lungs are in somebody else’s body.”

Daryl snorts, shaking his head, like he’s not quite sure how he ended up in this situation, but is taking it in stride. He’s good at that, Carol’s learning, the whole, “welp, I guess this is happening,” thing, and it’s been a godsend, honestly. She thinks her anxiety about everything would be a lot higher if Daryl weren’t so zen.

“How’ve you been feelin’?” Daryl asks then, voice tentative, like he’s afraid to broach the topic that’s always lingering in the air between them. “I woulda texted you more this past week, but I didn’t wanna seem…”

Whatever he didn’t want to seem like being is kept a secret from her as he trails off with a shrug, but she has a pretty good idea of what he means. They’ve managed to keep their hands off each other since the day she told him about the accidental house guest—or rather, the day he anticipated what she was going to say and saved her the trouble—but the lines are still blurry. It’d be futile, not to mention the most blatant lie imaginable, for either of them to deny their attraction to the other, but by that same token, they know that they can’t do anything about it. The closer they get, the harder it’ll be when they have to be apart, and giving up the accidental house guest will already be heart-wrenching enough for Carol as it is.

But he worries about her. That much is obvious, and she can feel his need to check up on her well-being like it were radiating off of him in waves. It’s sweet. He’s sweet. She wishes he weren’t.

“I’m okay,” she tells him. “Nauseous, but that’s to be expected. I yacked in front of a client the other day, so that was motifying.”

“Why would a stiff care?” Daryl asks with a bemused frown, and Carol breathes a small laugh. 

“A  _ living _ client,” she amends. “Someone arranging a funeral for her mom.”

“Oh,” Daryl says, sucking in air between his teeth. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” Carol asks with a grin. “It’s not your fault. Well…” She exchanges a glance with Daryl, who raises an eyebrow at her, and she concedes the point.

“There anythin’ I can do to help?” Daryl asks, hunching his shoulders and staring out of the windshield, looking sheepish. 

“Nah,” Carol says. “It is what it is. It’ll pass. Just part of the process. I’ve done it before.” At the mention of her last pregnancy, Daryl bows his head. Not wanting to stray into that territory, she hastily changes the subject. “Glenn, my pickup and delivery guy—the one back at the mortuary who lost the body—he told me that the hospital wouldn’t tell him who the other package was for. I’m not exactly sure how this will go, so I’m gonna need you to just follow my lead, okay?”

Daryl narrows his eyes at her suspiciously, perhaps with good reason.

“You’re not gonna do anythin’ weird, right?” he asks. Carol hems and haws and Daryl shakes his head with a smirk. “Follow your lead,” he says, knowing her well enough already to not question her further. “Got it.”

*

The guy working on the delivery dock is a burly man, built like if he slicked back his black hair and wasn’t wearing cargo shorts he could have just walked off the set of  _ The Godfather _ . He gives Carol a bored expression as she explains why she’s here, keeping his arms crossed, and chewing on a toothpick the entire time.

“Listen, sweetheart,” the man says, taking the toothpick out of his mouth and giving her a once over, sizing her up and finding nothing threatening there. “Like I told your little friend before, I ain’t allowed to just give out information. If the packages really did get switched I’m sure whoever has yours will bring it back and we’ll give you a call, alright?”

From beside her, Daryl looks like he’s about to say something, but Carol cuts him off.

“Do you know who this is?” she asks the man seriously, pointing at Daryl. Daryl’s eyebrows shoot up, as if to ask,  _ Uh, who exactly am I supposed to be? _ , but Carol keeps going. “This is, uh...Tobin Carter. Tobin’s brother is in your hospital right this very minute receiving a heart that Mr. Wayne Dunlap was brave and selfless enough to donate. Tobin and his brother came all this way from, er, what state was it?” Carol asks Daryl, who stares at her blankly. 

“New Mexico,” he says after two or three beats of silence. Carol snaps her fingers.

“That’s right. They moved to Atlanta from New Mexico in hopes that a heart would come available, and guess what? It did. And now Tobin’s little brother is undergoing  _ massive  _ surgery, and Tobin showed up at the front doors of my mortuary, because he wanted to pay his respects to Mr. Dunlap. Mr. Dunlap answered Tobin’s prayers, and he wants to tell him that he died for something. 

“Now, by the time this whole ‘situation’—” Carol does air quotes. “—gets sorted out, Mr. Dunlap’s family will already be having his remains shipped to...Montana. Because that is where they live. They live in Montana. And Tobin? He won’t get the chance to pay his respects. But if you would just let us go retrieve the body that  _ you all _ got mixed up in the  _ first place _ , we don’t gotta put him through that. What do you say?” 

The guy looks at Carol’s grave, impassioned face, and lets out a long sigh.

“I don’t get paid enough to stand around arguing with y’all,” he says, walking over to a clipboard sitting on top of a bunch of boxes. He flips through some pages, skimming over them, until he finds what he’s looking for. “Grubroot Private Elementary,” he reads off in a bored voice. “Happy?” 

“Very. C’mon, Daryl,” Carol says, taking Daryl by the elbow and leading him back to the van.

“Wait, what’d you call him?” the guy says.

“Thanks again,” Carol calls back, waving from the driver’s side of the van, before slamming it shut behind her.

“You ever play poker?” Daryl asks, taking hold of his seat belt.

“No, why?” Carol asks, shifting into drive. Daryl grins, leaning back in his seat.

“Might wanna try it sometime.”

*

Grubroot Private Elementary is located way out of their way in a bougie part of town. It’s a spectacularly dull building, and all the children are dressed in identical uniforms according to sex. 

“I know I don’t have a lot of say in the matter,” Carol whispers, as they enter the school and head to the main office. “But could you not send the kid here?”

“Well there go my plans,” Daryl deadpans, shooting her a smirk. She smiles and turns her gaze away, ignoring the weird hollow feeling in her chest at the thought of Daryl sending his child off to school one day. 

“May I help you?” asks the receptionist at the main office. She’s a pointy woman. That’s the best way Carol can describe her. She’s got a long pointy nose, and thin pointy shoulders, and a jutting pointy chin, none of which is helped by the large, square glasses she has on, with a chain attached to them that hangs below her pointy ears.

“Yeah, where would someone take a CPR dummy they picked up from the hospital?” Carol asks. The pointy woman furrows her brow.

“Um, well, there’s a backroom to this office where all the mail goes. Packages addressed to the school are opened back there before being sent to their designated place.” She checks the watch on her pointy wrist. “I imagine they’re sorting through the mail right about now. Why do you ask?”

“Er, there was a mixup this morning at the hospital where the CPR dummy was picked up. I believe you have my package, and I have yours, and I was hoping we could get them switched back. Preferably asap, if someone is already back there going through them.”

“Alright, I’ll just need to see some proof.”

“Proof?” Carol asks.

“Why, yes. I can’t just  _ give  _ you a package. Do you have identification? Is there someone at the hospital we could contact?”

“Ooh, probably not, I think I may have burned that bridge,” Carol says under her breath.

“Come again?”

“I said I don’t have any proof on me, but I can assure you, it would be in your best interest if you just let me get my passage,” Carol says. The pointy woman purses her lips into a point.

“Ma’am, in order to secure our school’s safety, I cannot go around giving out private packages to strangers.”

“I know that, but—”

“I’m sorry, but my hands are tied. You are of course welcome to return with the proper documentation. Perhaps if you tell me what’s in your package we can keep an eye out and make sure no one tampers with it.”

“ _ Weeell _ ,” Carol says, while Daryl huffs out a big breath of air. 

Just then, a loud scream comes from the back room, making all three of them jump. 

“ _ What the fuck? _ ” a man yells. “ _ Oh my god, holy shit, what in the actual fuck is this? _ ” 

Daryl covers his mouth with his hands to stifle his laughter, and Carol cringes.

“Yeah,” she says, nodding towards the back room. “I think that guy can give you some proof.”

*

The two of them make it to their appointment only three minutes late. 

“Shouldn’t we have dropped Mr. Dunlap back off at the mortuary first?” Daryl asks. Carol waves a dismissive hand.

“Eh, the back is refrigerated,” she says. “And besides, I hate rescheduling appointments.”

After all the paperwork is completed they’re taken into the back room to have an ultrasound done before meeting with the doctor. Daryl hovers awkwardly at her side, like he’s not sure how close he should stand, or if he’s meant to hold her hand during it, and she can’t help him, because she doesn’t know either.

“How has y’all’s day been?” the ultrasound tech asks when she greets them. Carol and Daryl exchange a look.

“Uneventful,” Carol says.

“Same shit, different day, right?” Daryl says. They both fight back grins that the ultrasound tech doesn’t see.

When they get it all set up, that’s when Carol realizes that she hasn’t prepared herself for this. She’s known about it since she scheduled the appointment two weeks ago, but she hadn’t let herself think about what that meant. 

An image pops up on the screen, and Carol watches the ultrasound tech point out the little dot amidst all the indiscernible things around it. The thrum of a tiny heartbeat fills the room, making Carol’s own heart ache. For now it’s an accidental house guest, but in a few months it’s going to be something so much more than that, and until this moment she didn’t realize just how badly that’s going to hurt. 

When she can’t look anymore, she turns her eyes to Daryl, and it’s almost worse. Because he is enraptured at what’s in front of him, absolutely awed, and maybe a little freaked out. She doesn’t fault him for his fear; would be concerned if he wasn’t at least somewhat afraid. His hand has found hers on its own accord—she doesn’t think Daryl even realizes he took it in his grasp. 

Carol’s ex never looked at Sophia like that. Not when she was a teeny tiny blip on an ultrasound, and not when she was a full-fleshed human being either. Not once.

For a second—just one—Carol lets herself imagine what it could be like to raise a child with a father that loves them. A father that might even be able to learn to love  _ her  _ too. A father like she already knows Daryl will be.

She lets him keep the photograph, of course. She watches him slip it into his wallet so delicately, despite his strong and rough worker’s hands.

“You good?” he asks her on the way back to the mortuary. She hasn’t said more than a couple words since they left. 

“I gotta be,” she says, eyes trained on the road. In her periphery she sees him shake his head.

“Nah. No you don’t,” he says. Carol blinks back the sting in her eyes at that. “Hey?” Daryl says after more silence has passed.

“Hm?”

“I want you to know that it’s okay if you change your mind. About you bein’ involved, I mean.”

“Daryl—” she starts, but he’s already talking over her.

“I know. I know what you’re gonna say. You’re gonna say you’re dead certain on your choice, and that’s totally fine. I mean it. It really is. But like...if at any point you change your mind, I’ll be okay with it. At  _ any  _ point. Alright? You don’t gotta say nothin’ ‘cept that you understand.”

“I understand,” Carol says flatly, for once needing to get as far away from Daryl as she can, but for the same reasons that usually make her drawn to him. He’s made one hell of a mess of her. 

No. That’s not fair. He isn’t responsible for any messes any more than the accidental house guest is.

The mess is just a mess, and Carol has no choice but to live in it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i laughed through writing that entire tobin scene, jsyk. like, never feel bad for not thinking i'm funny, bc i think i'm funny enough for the both of us. -hair flip-
> 
> also, i think i mentioned in a chapter that carol works in rural georgia, and then set the scene in atlanta here, and since i'm the person i am, i'm not going to fix that. mb carol had a minor stroke or something and forgot where she lived, idk.
> 
> anyway! at the moment it seems like i've been alternating weeks on this and gas gauge, but i'd rather just say "around this time every week i'll probably have something posted, and mb i'll post oneshots in between if the mood strikes me." that's nice and vague, right? 
> 
> k, i need to get some actual sleep tonight, so i'll see y'all on the flip. 
> 
> <3 u all,  
> -diz
> 
> p.s. btw, if you don't get the wayne dunlap reference, watch the second episode of twd, or visit my blog off mobile and watch the header image. waynedunlaptheorgandonor.tumblr.com 
> 
> xoxo


	5. V. Not Allowed to Fall in Love

Arriving home from work, Daryl stands in the front door of his house and counts all the things inside it that could kill a baby.

There are, at first glance, four uncovered electrical sockets, and one power strip with too many things plugged into it. That lamp cord will need to be taped down, or maybe he should switch to battery operated everything. That would double as environmentally friendly, too, right? Daryl Dixon goes green. The edges of the coffee table are way too sharp. Daryl’s banged his leg against it good a time or two, and got some nasty bruises as a result—what would it do to a soft toddler skull? There are two stools sat by the bar counter separating his kitchen from his living room, and he’ll definitely need to trash those for something that a tiny human won’t go toppling right off of, and dear lord, has he always had so many dust bunnies, rogue coins, and is that a screw on the floor? He’s living in one big choking hazard.

He’s going to kill this child. Carol is going to give birth, he’s going to take the baby home, and then it is going to die. Why did he think this was a good idea?

But then, among all the death traps, Daryl sees other possibilities. Spending his mornings in the kitchen having breakfast with his kid. Sitting on the couch during a weekend movie marathon with a little boy or girl, sharing popcorn and making dumb jokes together. He sees his refrigerator covered in terrible artwork and report cards with the As and Bs he never got when he was in school.

If he can manage to keep the kid alive this might end up being neat as hell.

Daryl’s eyes stray to the door across from him that leads into Merle’s bedroom. Making a fart noise with his lips, he stuffs his hands into his dusty, paint-flecked jeans and contemplates for the millionth time today how this conversation is going to go.

It’s time Merle found out that his room is going to be turned into a nursery. Also that his room isn’t going to be his room anymore. Also that this is no longer his house and he’s being officially evicted.

No, not evicted. That’s such a harsh word. He’s just not going to be allowed to live there anymore.

...Okay, so he’s being evicted, but it’s not like Daryl is putting his brother out on his ass tomorrow. He’ll give him a couple months to get his shit together, which is more than fair. Frankly, he’s been overly generous already, and has nothing to be sorry for.

Then why does he feel so guilty? 

Merle’s got Daryl’s mind twisted—always has—but he’s going to be a father, damnit. He can’t afford to let his older brother manipulate him anymore. How’s Daryl meant to tell a kid they can’t have ice cream for dinner or whatever if he never learns to stand up for himself?

Summoning up courage from somewhere deep inside—like  _ deep _ , like, “bottom dregs of his lower intestine” deep—he plops himself down on the couch and calls out, “Hey, Merle!”

There’s no answer, and he yells a couple more times, until a disgruntled grunt comes from behind the closed door.

“C’mere,” Daryl says. Nothing happens for a minute, until he finally hears the springs of the old mattress inside groaning, and the creaking of the floorboards under his brother’s heavy footsteps.

“Whaddya want?” Merle says, opening the door a crack and scowling.

“Sit a spell, need to talk to you,” Daryl says over his shoulder to his brother, gesturing to the armchair adjacent to the couch. Merle stares Daryl down for a beat before coming out of the room and shuffling to the chair. He drops down ungracefully, unshaven and bleary-eyed. He crosses his arms.

“Well?” Merle says expectantly, tone about as sweet as Mr. Dunlap was after Daryl and Carol got back to the mortuary and realized the refrigerated part of the van malfunctioned while sitting out in the Georgia sun. Daryl’s learned not to take it personally. Merle’s grouchiness transcends sibling disagreement, and instead incompasses a general sort of discontent with life and existence as a whole. Add that to the list of reasons he needs to get the fuck out of Daryl’s house—he needs a reason to do more than lie in bed and rot away like, well, like Mr. Dunlap.

“We gotta discuss somethin’,” Daryl says tentatively, and Merle snorts.

“Yeah, got that. Discuss what?” Merles asks, impatient. 

_ Do it so you can have the confidence to make your kid eat their vegetables, _ Daryl tells himself.

“I’m givin’ you a move out deadline,” Daryl says, pretending this is merely a landlord/tenant conversation, and trying to keep a steady, professional face, like he’s in an interview or some shit. He manages about as well as he does in interviews, meaning he looks and sounds constipated and terrified.

(Side note: He’s not entirely sure how he has a job.)

Merle’s scowl deepens.

“You kickin’ me out?” he asks, and Daryl pretends he doesn’t hear the hurt under his brother’s gruffness.

“Don’t look at it as me kickin’ you out. Think of it more as me givin’ you the boost you need to find your own place.”

“You mean ‘cause you’re kickin’ me out,” Merle deadpans.

“Well...yeah,” Daryl says lamely. “But you still got some time. I’m givin’ you ‘til the end of the year.”

“That’s only like, three months.”

“That’s plenty of time to find you a job and put down a deposit on a place if you get your ass in gear.”

“I’m tellin’ you, I been lookin’. Ain’t nobody hirin’.”

“How many apps have you put in?”

“Enough.”

“Mhm. Listen, I let you in to get back on your feet after the pen. You done good passin’ all your piss tests and listenin’ to your probation officer. You don’t need me holdin’ your hand no more. You got this.”

“You ain’t holdin’ my hand, man,” Merle spits, shooting daggers. “Don’t get all self-righteous. I coulda done this on my own from the jump. It was just the brotherly thing to do, helpin’ me out, so don’t act like you’s a victim or some shit. Like I been some kinda horrible burden. This ‘cause of me not doin’ enough housework? ‘Cause I can start washin’ my dishes. Though I still say you should get yourself a woman so we don’t gotta do all that wifey work ourselves.”

“It ain’t about the dishes, Merle.”

“What, then? We got a good set up here, man. You wanna be all alone in this place? I know you, lil’ brother, you’re all sweet and sensitive. You get lonely.”

Daryl bristles and resists the urge to roll his eyes. Like, sure, he might have used to leave the TV on even when he wasn’t watching it so he could pretend there was someone else in the house, but Merle doesn’t have to call him out like that.

“It ain’t personal, okay? I need you to get yourself your own place, ‘cause come April I’m gonna have...er...another roommate.”

Merle’s scowl morphs into something more baffled.

“What?” he asks, likely going through the list of people Daryl knows and talks to. It probably doesn’t take longer than two seconds, three max. “Is your police bitch movin’ in?”

“No.”

“Did you actually get yourself a woman?”

“ _ No. _ Or, well, not like that.” He sighs. “Look man, I’m havin’ a baby, okay?”

Merle opens his mouth to say something, but Daryl’s words seem to come together, and instead his mouth just stays open, hanging agape while Daryl picks at a cuticle.

“Yeah, so.” Daryl clears his throat. “I need your room. For the kid. Gonna make it a nursery.”

Merle mouths the word “nursery”, no less dumbstruck.

“Like I said, kid ain’t comin’ ‘til April, but I want time to get the place set up. That’s why I’m sayin’ beginnin’ of the year for a move out date. You can still like, come over and stuff. It ain’t like you’re banned. You just can’t, you know, live here.”

Merle blinks at him.

“Say somethin’?” Daryl asks when his brother’s silence drags on too long.

“The fuck you mean you’re havin’ a  _ baby _ ?” Merles manages to ask. He leans forward in his chair and regards Daryl closely. “You havin’ some kind of psychotic break, lil’ brother? Losin’ your mind, thinkin’ up crazy, impossible shit?”

“Not havin’ no psychotic break, but I am havin’ a baby,” Daryl says, suddenly defensive. “Why’s that so hard to believe?”

“Why’s that so hard to—lil’ brother! When have you ever got your dick wet ‘cept when I set you up? And now you’re tellin’ me you ain’t only found some chick all on your own, but you knocked her up too? The fuck? Who even is she? How’d you meet?”

“Uhhh,” Daryl says, cringing. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah it fuckin’ matters!” Merle says, throwing his hands up in the air. “You’re havin’ yourself a baby, I wanna know who’s cookin’ the kid.”

“Jesus Christ. She’s no one, okay? I mean, no, not no one. She’s no one you know. Met her after dad died. That day I went to go get his ashes.”

“What, you go to the bar afterwards to pour one out for the piece of shit and picked someone up or somethin’?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then  _ what _ ?”

“It, uh, wasn’t just the day I went to get dad’s ashes. It was  _ where _ I went to get them. Like, that’s where we met.”

Merle takes a moment to process this. When he does, he has an important question for his brother.

_ “You fucked the undertaker?” _

Daryl flinches. Fucked is such a brash way of putting it. Romanced the undertaker, maybe? Made love to her? Although he’s not sure how anything he did that day could be remotely construed as romantic.

“I slept with one of the undertakers,” he says. “She’s got a couple employees so I don’t think she’s technically the only one. She’s the owner, though. Real good at it, too, she gets real good business. It’s an interestin’ job, actually. Not a job too many people think of gettin’, you know?”

“You are missin’ the point here, lil’ brother,” Merle says, scrubbing at his face with his hands. “You fucked the woman who cremated our daddy? Does she know what happened with his ashes.”

“Yeah, actually, that’s kinda how we got talkin’. She was there when I, uh, dropped dad, and she got all worried that I was up in my feelin’s about it, so she took me to this weird hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, and one thing led to another.”

“One thing led to another? You spill an urn in front of this woman and she lets you put a baby in her? Shit man, I guess that tracks. I mean, how well-adjusted can you really be if you work with dead people?”

“She’s real smart and nice,” Daryl says, coming to Carol’s defense. “Pretty, too.” 

“So you’re sayin’ she ain’t some goth bitch who lives in a mortuary and hangs out with all the stiffs?”

“No, she lives in a loft above the mortuary.” 

“Christ almighty.”

“Look, leave her be, okay? There ain’t nothin’ wrong with her. She’s a normal person, and we screwed around stupid, and got ourselves into a situation. Shit that happens every day of the week. I ain’t  _ incapable _ of gettin’ with a woman just ‘cause I don’t go out chasin’ tail every other night.”

“Alright,” Merle says, holding his hands up in surrender. “And she’s dead set on keepin’ it? You’re for sure on the hook for this?”

“It’s...complicated,” Daryl says, already dreading the lecture he’s about to receive.

“Complicated how? She on the fence about it?”

“No, she’s definitely havin’ it, but she’s not...keepin’ it?”

Merle squints.

“Come again?”

“She doesn’t want the baby, but couldn’t go through with the abortion. She was gonna put the kid up for adoption, but I offered to take full custody myself.”

Daryl thinks he can smell burning rubber wafting out of Merle’s ears.

“Man,  _ what _ ? You tellin’ me she gave you a complete and total out and instead you took on  _ all _ the responsibility? Full custody? Gonna breastfeed and get up every two hours and change shitty diapers, too?” 

“Obviously gonna skip the breastfeedin’, but yeah, man. That’s what parents do. I’m gonna take care of the kid best I can.”

“How you plan on payin’ for this? Babies don’t come cheap.”

“See, I do this thing called ‘workin’ for a livin’’. It’ll be tight, but the two of us’ll manage. I’ll pick up shifts or get a side job before the kid’s born; build up a savings to get through these first weeks when I gotta stay with ‘em. Been lookin’ at resources in town to help, and crunchin’ numbers. We’ll be okay.”

While he does truly believe he’ll find a way to make it work, Daryl leaves out the part about how he had a forty-five minute panic attack after researching daycare prices.

Merle rubs the nape of his neck.

“Shit, lil’ brother. You’re really doin’ this?”

Daryl asks himself the same question morning, noon, and night every damn day. The answer, though? The answer is always the same.

“Yes,” he says, more confidently than he’s said anything this whole conversation, his constipated interview face wiped away. “I am.”

Merle stares his brother down for a good long while. Finally, he huffs a laugh, shaking his head.

“Okay, then. Baby brother’s havin’ a baby of his own. Ain’t my place to interfere.” He gets to his feet and heads back to his bedroom. He pauses with a hand on the door. “I’ll be out by New Year’s,” he says. “You and the lil’ one got my word.”

*

Four days later, in the evening, Daryl gets a phone call from Carol, telling him, much too calmly, that something is wrong, and can he please meet her at the hospital?

He arrives at the ER in record time. He took his bike instead of his Chevy, and swerved in between cars, not even pretending to care about the speed limit. “Something wrong” is so unbearably vague. “Wrong” can be anything from too much gas to exploding insides, and Carol, not knowing herself what was going on other than “I dunno, I feel weird,” couldn’t provide many details.

He spots her right away in the crowded waiting room. It’s a Saturday night on a full moon, and nearly every chair is filled with patients with varying ailments. 

There’s a drunk man with a giant gash on his forehead ranting about communism.

A woman the size of a stick is leaning against the wall moaning about back pain, listing off every opiate she requires by name and dosage. 

At the admission’s desk, a shrill lady is yelling that she and her husband have been waiting for fifty-seven minutes. She keeps gesturing to her husband, who is in his late thirties and prematurely bald, and keeps covering his bright red face with his hands. More notably, there is a vacuum cleaner sat in front of him, the hose leading up under a blanket he has draped over his lap, and Daryl can only infer as to what it’s stuck on.

Tuning out the chaos, Daryl walks over to the far corner where Carol is trying to hide from the everything happening around her. When she notices him she moves her purse off the chair she was saving for him, and he sits, immediately taking stock of her, searching for any signs of trauma, illness, or weird sexual injuries  à la vacuum guy.

“Are you alright?” Daryl asks in lieu of a greeting. She twists her mouth and shrugs.

“That’s what I’m here to find out,” she says dryly. Her tone is flat and stable, like it was over the phone, and somehow that makes Daryl more nervous.

“What’s goin’ on? Did they say when you’d be seen?”

“They just told me they’d call my name when it was my turn and gave me six thousand pages of paperwork to fill out,” she says.

“What is it that’s got you feelin’ wrong?”

“I’m having weird cramps, and I’m bleeding more than usual,” she says, frowning down at her lap where she’s fiddling with a pen he’s guessing she used to fill out her forms. “I called my OB-GYN and she suggested I come here to get checked out, just in case. It might be nothing.”

“What could it be if it ain’t nothin’?”

Carol threads the pen in between her fingers.

“My doctor is worried that I may be showing signs of miscarriage.”

“Oh.”

The two of them fall silent. All at once, the mental image of the imagined life with his son or daughter Daryl crafted crumbles apart. Maybe he kicked Merle out for nothing, and will end up all alone in his shitty house with the awful shag carpet after all. He tries not to feel embarrassed and overzealous about the Craigslist tabs he remembers he still has open on his phone when he was looking at used baby items on his lunch break yesterday.

“Hey,” Carol says then, nudging him in the arm with her elbow. “We don’t know anything yet. It could all be fine.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Daryl says. He straightens up in his chair and pretends to be a confident, self-assured person. He doesn’t think Carol buys it, because she gives him a sad sort of smile.

“You really want this baby, don’t you?” she asks quietly. There’s a trace of wonder in her tone, like she just now realized what Daryl hadn’t even known definitively himself, but she’s right. He does. He’s still scared, but after the adjustment period passed, he’s been psyching himself up about it, and now, faced with the prospect of losing it all, his stomach’s all twisted.

“Feels kinda dumb,” he mumbles.

“What does?” Carol asks, and he shrugs. He picks at the same cuticle he always picks at when he’s nervous, and he’s pretty sure the skin there has never fully healed.

“Feelin’ some type of way about a kid I didn’t even mean to have. Month or so ago this wasn’t even on my radar, you know? Shouldn’t, I dunno, matter as much as it does. But it matters.”

“Yeah,” Carol breathes, knitting her brows together and not meeting his eye.

“How are you doin’, though?” Daryl asks. 

“I don’t know. I mean, it’s not...this isn’t my baby,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced, and not for the first time does Daryl suspect that her decision to sign over her rights is a lot less cut and dry than she makes herself believe. He’s no expert in grief—or in any emotion, for that matter—but there’s an inkling of doubt that plays in the back of his mind whenever she asserts that she’s dealt with her daughter’s death, and knows how to cope healthily.

But what does he know? So the two of them have fucked a couple times and tracked down a dead body once—they’re still effectively strangers at the end of the day. If she says she doesn’t want the baby, then he’s not going to try and tell her otherwise. It’s not his place.

If there even is a baby, that is.

“Maybe not,” Daryl says, thinking his words through carefully. “But it’s still your body that’s growin’ the kid, and I mean, you didn’t go through with the abortion. There was a reason for that, right? You want them to be okay.”

Carol, who Daryl has not seen express anything but a confident resilience about anything, frowns deeply, still staring at her lap, and wipes at her eyes with a huff, like she can’t believe her tears would have the audacity to show up without her consent.

“Oh no,” Daryl says, panicking, just as taken aback as she appears to be at her blatant display of emotion. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. ‘M sorry.”

“It’s hormones, don’t worry about it,” she says dismissively, sniffling and scrubbing away the traitorous wetness on her cheeks. 

Acting on instinct, Daryl takes Carol’s hand in his and says, “Teach me somethin’ about death.”

Carol blinks.

“Sorry?”

“That’s somethin’ that always cheers you up, right? Tell me somethin’ I don’t know about death.”

A small, bemused smile plays on Carol’s lips.

“Okay,” she says slowly, coming around to the idea, which is a relief because Daryl definitely was kind of guessing on that particular consolation method. “What do you want to know?”

“Shit, I dunno. Don’t know much about death other than it’s comin’ for us all, and also it ain’t a great idea to set urns on top of trucks.” He feels proud when that earns him a laugh. “You been sayin’ you ain’t allowed to be in the embalming room at work ‘cause you’re pregnant, but I ain’t never asked why. What’s up with that?”

“Oh, that’s just because it’s like, crazy toxic,” Carol says pleasantly. “Like, pregnant women shouldn’t breathe in the fumes, but also no other living person should either. Embalmers have a substantially higher risk of cancer.”

“For real? Why do it, then?”

“What, you mean you don’t find the idea of draining a corpse’s body fluids out into a drain, replacing it with toxic chemicals, and then plugging up all the orifices to keep grandpa from leaking into his casket appealing?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Daryl says, receiving another laugh that lightens his heart. She’s got the sweetest laugh.

“You have to have a passion for the dead, I think, to do any of the work. It’s not for the faint hearted. Embalming is safer than it used to be. Back in the early days—think Civil war era—they used arsenic.”

“Arsenic? How’d that not kill ‘em?”

“It did. That’s why we don’t use arsenic anymore.”

“Right, now you just use stuff that causes cancer.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a work in progress. I personally prefer a more natural route. Let decomposition do its thing.”

“That’s an option?”

“Of course.”

“Damn.”

“What?”

“What’d I go barbecuing my daddy for if I coulda just let him get fucked up by worms? Woulda been way more satisfying.”

“Maybe, but then you never would have dropped his urn in my parking lot, and we never would have met. Although,” she says, a little melancholy. “Maybe you would have been better off that way.”

“Nah,” Daryl says, squeezing her hand. “No matter what, I know it all happened the way it was s’posed to. And tell you what? I’m glad as hell that it did.”

*

Daryl holds a second ultrasound picture of his son or daughter in his hands. It hasn’t been more than two weeks and already the kid has gotten bigger.

Gotten bigger, and will continue to do so, because the ER doctor gave Carol and the baby a clean bill of health. There’s nothing amiss in her womb as far as they can tell, and they’re only threeish weeks away from the second trimester, where Daryl’s been told they won’t have to worry as much.

Daryl’s thoughts about the future start creeping back into his head as he looks down at the alien-like blob with a vaguely human shape.

“Thanks for coming,” Carol says once they’ve been discharged. They walk out through the waiting room where vacuum fucker is still there with his wife, who by this point is in hysterics. Out in the parking lot, Daryl walks Carol to her car. She fiddles with her keys, looking suddenly exhausted in every sense of the word. Daryl taps her foot with the tip of his boot.

“‘Course I came,” he says. “You gonna be okay, though?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” she asks, but one look at her tells him that even she knows how unconvincing that was.

“How can I help?” Daryl asks. It’s been hard knowing what he should and shouldn’t do, and it’d be grand if she wanted to give him some guidance for once.

She seems reluctant, though, and Daryl has to wait a good while before she admits quietly, “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Daryl worries his lower lip between his teeth; picks at his raw cuticle.

“You don’t gotta be,” he says.

*

Daryl follows her back to her loft and waits in her bedroom, stiff as a board, as she gets cleaned up in the bathroom.

They don’t fuck tonight, and that’s worse.

Instead, Carol curls up against him, and he cocoons her in his arms, resting his face in the crook of her neck and placing a soft kiss there. They hold hands, and he rubs circles against her palm with his thumb. He keeps her reassured and comforted with his touch.

It’s not until she’s lulled to sleep that he gives himself time to dwell. With her tucked securely in his embrace, he can’t help thinking how right it feels; how nice it would be to do this every night.

He’s sexually attracted to her, that’s never been a question, but it’s more than that. Maybe it’s always been more than that.

Except it can’t be. This is very much a “you’re not allowed to fall in love with me” situation, and he has been told in no uncertain terms why she will never be his and he will never be hers.

But then, he thinks, brushing the back of his hand along the soft skin of her forearm, he’s seen the movies and knows the tropes.

There’s never been a person in all of history who’s been instructed not to fall in love with someone who isn’t head over heels by the final act.

And at this rate? Daryl thinks. He’ll be lucky if he makes it that long. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally getting back on the writing train after a long, perplexing illness/flu thing. gas gauge is up next, to those it may concern, but i can't promise an exact day or time. remember when i used to update things regularly? what a time that was.
> 
> thanks for reading, boos. 
> 
> xoxo,  
> -diz


	6. VI. Keep Your Distance

“So what’s the deal with you and the baby daddy?” Michonne asks under her breath. An elderly woman in a black pants’ suit with a gaudy broach pinned to her bosom shuffles in between where Michonne and Carol are standing, and Michonne says, in a louder but still hushed tone, “Welcome. I’m sorry for your loss.”

The elderly woman nods and makes her way down the aisle to find herself a seat among the many chairs set out in rows before a sleek, open casket that people are drifting by with somber expressions.

“There is nothing ‘going on’ between us,” Carol whispers back once the woman is out of earshot. “And don’t call him that.”

“Well, what do I call him?” Michonne counters.

“His  _ name _ ,” Carol says, and her friend scoffs.

“Dull,” she says, and adds, a moment later, “Welcome. Sorry for your loss,” when a young man in a black suit approaches with a young blonde woman in a black dress hanging off his arm and sniffling.

“I’m just saying that given the delicate nature of your arrangement, the two of you seem to be spending a lot of time together,” Michonne whispers. Carol scowls and then quickly rearranges her face into something more neutral when she remembers where she is.

“I didn’t know there was a set protocol on how to handle this kind of ‘delicate situation’,” she says.

“There isn’t, but I worry about you. Are you sure you’re not getting attached to him? Because that’ll only complicate things.”

“I’m well-aware of how complicated my life is right now, thank you very much,” Carol snaps. A teenage boy in a black t-shirt and faded black jeans with a hole in the knee pauses in the doorway and raises an eyebrow at her. Carol clears her throat and gestures into the room, saying, “Take a seat wherever you’d like. My deepest condolences.”

The truth of the matter is that Michonne has a point, not that Carol would ever admit it out loud. Things were weird in general with her and Daryl, but ever since he stayed the night after the scare at the hospital, things have been extra questionable. 

It’s easy to write off sex as the result of too much blood in the junk than in the brain, but it’s harder to twist fully-clothed, several-hour-long spooning into harmless, platonic fun.

And now Carol keeps coming up with increasingly stupid reasons to see him, because she is a self-destructive piece of shit with a big lady-boner and an even bigger heart-boner.

Not that she’d ever admit it out loud.

_ “I’m out of Wheat Thins, and they’re the only thing I can keep down. I’m the only one here watching the mortuary. Would it be a huge hassle for you to swing by the store and drop off a box? I’ll pay you back.” _ (She still had a third of a box left to get her through until closing time.)

_ “Hey, you work on houses, can you take a look at my viewing room and see if there are any cracks in the foundation or something? Bats keep getting in somehow. _ (One bat got in four months ago, and Carol’s pretty sure it flew in through the open side door when they propped it open to bring in a casket.) 

_ “This delivery of formaldehyde is taped up extra secure and I can’t find my scissors. Do you have a pocket knife on you?” _ (That one was especially sad. Like he really was gonna buy that she didn’t have anything sharp enough to cut through an extra layer of tape, for Christ’s sake.)

But in her defense, she isn’t the only one being pathetic, because every time she texts him another ploy to meet up disguised as a dumbass excuse, he replies in an instant, saying he’ll be there ASAP. More days than not they find ways to see each other without ever explicitly saying the words, “Do you want to hang out today?” because that would be crossing the line. But coming over to open a box she could have cut with her house key if she tried hard enough? Well, that’s no problem.

“This is becoming a problem,” Michonne whispers. “What are you going to do when the baby’s born and you have to cut ties?”

“Whatever I do isn’t your concern,” Carol hisses out of the corner of her mouth, staring determinedly ahead with her jaw clenched.

“Don’t get mad, I promise I’m not trying to pry. I just don’t want this to hurt you anymore than it has to. I care about you, Carol.”

Carol lets her hackles lower a miniscule amount and sighs.

“You’re a good friend and your heart’s in the right place, but I promise I’ll be fine. You don’t have to take care of me, alright? I’m a big girl.”

“Alright,” Michonne says, and Carol opts to ignore the hint of doubt. “One question, though, and then I’ll let it be, but have you given any thought to, like, the alternative? To  _ not _ cutting ties?”

“Michonne…”

“No, I know. I do, truly. But maybe...hell, I don’t know, I’m just saying you should make sure grief isn’t clouding your judgment before you make any permanent decisions. That’s all.” 

Across the room, two people embrace, weeping together before the casket holding the still body of a person they love.

“I can’t,” Carol says, as the strangers swipe at their eyes, only to get hit by a fresh wave of tears a moment later. “It’s not grief, it’s reality.”

“I know what you’ve lost, but that doesn’t mean you should go the rest of your life alone. You’re so strange, babe. It’s like you spend every day with the dead and yet are still somehow afraid of death.”

“Oh fuck off, don’t get maudlin.”

“It’s a funeral home. If I can’t get maudlin here then I can’t get maudlin anywhere. Besides, I’m not, I’m telling the truth. Everybody dies, Carol. You know better than anyone that no matter how you live your life you won’t ever escape it.”

“Maybe not,” Carol says. “But I can make sure the only dead people I deal with from now on are strangers.”

Before Michonne can say anything else, Carol gestures at the sliding door.

“Go ahead and shut that,” she whispers, as a polished man holding a bible goes up behind a podium and addresses the small crowd. “The funeral’s about to start.”

*

Carol is sitting in her intake room with Daryl across from her in a cushy armchair. She sips on a peppermint tea that he brought her, along with his own stupid excuse this time, which was, “I came out this way ‘cause I wanted one of them scones from the coffee shop and then thought maybe you could use somethin’ to help your stomach, and I know you’ve said peppermint helps,” never mind the fact that the property he’s working on this week is a good twenty minute drive away in good traffic, and that Carol hasn’t mentioned an upset stomach, and has, in fact, stated that her nausea has decreased over the past few days.

He drove twenty minutes for a scone. She apparently doesn’t own any scissors or knives. Sure.

“When do you have to get back to work?” Carol asks, the cup in her hands making her feel warm both literally and figuratively, as she tries to remind herself that she’s not the type of woman who swoons over simple acts of kindness from attractive men.

“Not ‘til tomorrow. There’s thunderstorms in the forecast and we’re doin’ roof work so the boss told us to take the rest of the day off. Just means we’ll hafta get twice as much done tomorrow, but beats gettin’ electrocuted, I guess,” he says. He’s chewing on that poor cuticle he always seems to be gnawing on when he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“I had a guy come through here once who got struck by lightning.”

“No shit?”

“Mhm. It was kind of neat, actually. When you die like that your body goes into instant rigor mortis, so he was kind of frozen in place right as he died. Bummer for him that he was taking a leak on the side of the road at the time.” 

“That’s sure as hell one way to go,” Daryl says with the sort of strangled laugh he gives whenever she tells him one of her funeral home anecdotes and he’s not sure if it’s distasteful to find it funny or not. “Goin’ out with a dick in your hands.”

“The rest of us can only hope to be so lucky,” Carol says, and Daryl laughs without restraint at that.

“Yo, boss,” Tara says then, bursting into the room, startling both of them. “I finished up Ms. Gonzalez and you gotta see it, I did awesome. Here, I took a picture since you can’t come downstairs.” She brandishes her phone in Carol’s face, who leans back to avoid getting struck and takes it from her.

“Huh. I’ll be damned,” Carol says, examining her young employee’s handiwork on a peaceful looking woman. If you didn’t know better she could be sleeping.

“Did I or did I not kick it in the ass?” Tara asks, beaming.

“Gotta admit, you did. Knew I hired you for a reason, kid,” Carol says, handing the phone back over. Tara takes it and immediately thrusts it at Daryl.

“Check this out, man,” she says.

“Uh, cool,” Daryl says with an expression that reads, “Yep, that sure is a dead person.”

“Oh wait, that’s probably not that impressive if you haven’t seen the ‘before’ picture, huh? Here, hold on.” 

Tara scrolls through a couple photos until she finds the one she’s looking for, and is already shoving it back in Daryl’s face before Carol can get, “Wait, don’t show him that,” past her lips.

“Oh Jesus fuck,” Daryl says, his entire expression going from polite, pretend interest, to pure disgust in no time flat, and Carol can’t blame him. “What the hell happened to her?”

“Her dog ate her face,” Tara says brightly. Daryl gently pushes Tara’s hand brandishing the phone out of his line of sight.

“What?” he asks, still grimacing.

“She died alone with her shih tzu,” Carol explains. “Heart attack took her out and no one knew for about a week. Man’s best friend tried rousing her by nipping at her eyelids and cheeks, and when that didn’t make her get up to feed him, well, he took food from where he could get it.”

“Remind me not to get pets,” Daryl mumbles. Carol smiles sympathetically before turning her attention back on Tara.

“Did you show Michonne that? She’ll be impressed,” Carol says.

“Not yet. She’s giving that guest lecture at the art school about post-mortem body restoration, remember?” 

“That’s today?” Carol asks, frowning and checking the time. “Then who’s doing the Johansen cremation?”

“I am,” Tara says simply, and Carol chokes on her own spit.

“No,” she says firmly. “No, nope, not a chance in hell. You are  _ not _ doing that cremation.”.

“C’mon, I’m getting better at working with people. I’m tactful. Right, Daryl? I’m more tactful?”

Daryl, not fully recovered from seeing Ms. Gonzalez’s feasted on flesh, just squints at her.

“I don’t care, this is way too sensitive,” Carol says.

“Michonne told me to do it,” Tara protests. “She said not to let you do it, because...well, you know.”

Carol sets her jaw and internally curses her well-meaning, yet endlessly intrusive friend.

“Lucky for us, Michonne is not your boss,” she says. “Is the body ready? She requested to see her before the cremation.”

“Yeah, of course. I got her all set up in the crematorium viewing room.”

“You remembered to use the outfit Mrs. Johansen brought?”

“No, I put her in a plastic sack. Of  _ course _ I did, boss. I’m not incompetent, sheesh.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Carol says, speaking a little more gently. She’d been new to this business too not all that long ago, after all. “And I’ll let you do an attended cremation here soon, but this one isn’t the one you’re gonna start with. These ones are a special kind of difficult, alright?”

“Yeah, okay,” Tara says, twisting her mouth in disappointment. “Are you sure you’ll be okay though? Like,  _ totally _ sure?”

“This is the nature of the job, honey,” Carol says kindly yet firmly. “We don’t get the luxury of letting the personal get in the way of the professional.”

Tara nods, for once void of something to the conversation. From their place in the intake room they hear the tinkling sound of the bell above the front door, and Tara exchanges a glance with Carol, who gives her a tight smile and gets to her feet. Daryl follows suit automatically.

“That’ll be her,” Carol says. “Tara, you stay back here until I take her over to the other building. Daryl, thank you for the tea. Sorry I gotta cut this short. You can come with me to and I’ll show you out.”

“Yeah, ‘course,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets and bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Everything good, though?”

Carol waves a dismissive hand and says, “Mhm. This job just isn’t quite as glamorous as it seems sometimes.” 

Daryl offers her a quip of the lips at her attempt at a joke, but the corners of his eyes crinkle in concern. He stays silent, however, and waits for Carol to lead the way.

Leaving Tara behind, Carol, with Daryl in tow, heads out into the lobby, where a pretty, dark-skinned woman is standing beside the desk, wringing her hands.

“Mrs. Johansen?” Carol says politely. The woman looks at her and tries and fails to smile. Carol walks over to her with her hand extended, and Mrs. Johansen takes it.

“You can, um, it’s fine if you call me Yvonne. Kind of a weird time to be on a last name basis, right?” Yvonne lets out a shaky laugh, her whole body trembling. She hasn’t let go of Carol’s hand and doesn’t appear to realize it.

“Yvonne, then. And you can call me Carol.” She places her other hand on top of her and Yvonne’s joined ones, and the simple, sweet gesture brings tears to Yvonne’s eyes.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Vyvonne says, pulling away and using a knuckle to wipe them away.

“Don’t apologize,” Carol says. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Daryl start towards the door.

“See you later,” he mouths at her and Carol nods. Yvonne sees this and looks at Daryl too.

“Wait,” she says suddenly, surprising Daryl, who stops with his hand on the door. He waits as Yvonne swallows thickly and asks, “Will you stay?”

“Uh,” Daryl says, looking to Carol for guidance, but she’s just as lost.

“It’s a lot to ask, I know. You don’t know me from Adam, but my...she should have more people there for her. It shouldn’t just be me. My husband, you know, I get it. I get why he couldn’t bring himself to come; why he couldn’t stomach seeing it happen, but...It shouldn’t just be me.” Yvonne is rambling, her lower lip quivering as she fights back the floodgates. Carol squeezes her arm.

“I’ll be there with you,” she whispers reassuringly. “It won’t be just you.”

“I know,” Yvonne says, snatching a kleenex out of a box sat on the desk next to a bottle of hand sanitizer and a stack of business cards. “But she’s only a body to you.” Before Carol can protest, she adds, “Which is fine. I’ve worked in social services for years, I know that you’ve got to keep your distance, but still…”

“Still you don’t want it to be just you,” Carol finishes for her. Yvonne nods, gaze trained at her shoes as Carol gives her a brief yet solid hug. “I get it. You’ve got to consider what you’re asking, though. The two of you have never met before, and he doesn’t even know what’s about to happen.”

“I’ll stay,” Daryl says then, and both Yvonne and Carol turn their heads to look at him. He falters a little under the scrutiny, still the shy person he is, but he remains determined. Carol’s stomach drops.

“I don’t think it’s a good—” but Yvonne speaks over her.

“Would you really? That would mean...you have no idea what that would mean to me.”

“I’ll stay,” Daryl says again with conviction, and Carol knows there won’t be convincing him otherwise. He doesn’t know, though. He has no idea.

“...Alright,” Carol says, with great reluctance. To Yvonne, she asks, “Are you ready to see her?”

The heaviness in Yvonne’s nod goes straight to Carol’s heart. 

The three of them walk through the funeral home into the connected crematorium. Carol leads Yvonne to a closed door.

“She’s right in there,” Carol explains quietly, making sure she knows what to expect, but also trying to give Daryl a bit of forewarning. “Spend as much time as you need with her and when you’re ready I’ll have you wait out here while I get everything set up. Then I’ll bring you in. Did my coworker explain what will happen when you had your intake? Do you have any questions?”

“She said I’d be the one to start the machine,” Yvonne says, creasing her brow, trying to recall the conversation with Michonne. Carol remembers how grief makes all days and conversations bleed together into one big blur, and waits patiently for her to parse it out. “I’m worried that it’ll make me feel guilty, though. Like I’m the one destroying her body.”

“Most people like to think of it as a send off; that they’ll leave the world with someone who loves them seeing them out. But if you find that you can’t do it, which is completely fine, I’ll be right there to help.”

“Okay,” Yvonne mutters. She licks her bottom lip and stares at the closed door like it’ll lead her straight into a deep, unforgiving void, and in some ways, Carol thinks, it might be like that. What is the emptiness of loss if not a void you can never fill?

“Will the two of you come in with me?”

Yvonne’s question hangs in the air. Carol would think nothing of it—for some people, there are things that simply aren’t meant to be faced alone—but bringing Daryl in? It’s a cruelty she’s not sure she can subject him to.

“I’ll go in with you, but I think it’s better for Daryl to wait outside,” Carol tells Yvonne, putting a hand on her upper arm.

“Daryl,” Yvonne says, rolling the name around on her tongue. “I didn’t even know your name and you’re doing this for me. This is too much to ask, though, she’s right. I can go in alone, it’s fine. Maybe it’s better.” Yvonne sounds anything but sure of herself, and Carol sighs, because she knows Daryl is simply too good to deny this stranger something so important.

But he still doesn’t  _ understand _ , and there’s no tactful way to explain it in front of Yvonne.

“I’ll go in, it’s fine,” Daryl says, rubbing the nape of his neck, out of his depth but _too fucking_ _good_. Carol hates him. She hates him for not giving her the opportunity to do anything but appreciate the hell out of the person he is.

She doesn’t know Daryl’s favorite color, or food, or movie. She couldn’t tell you where he grew up, or if he even went to college. She only knows his father’s name because she’s the one who put him in the incinerator, but where’s his mother? The most concrete things about Daryl that Carol could claim to  _ know _ are his favorite sexual positions, and that he’s the type of man who will take full responsibility for a baby he made on accident with a total stranger. That he’s the type of man who will accompany a whole other stranger into a viewing room of the dead so that she doesn’t have to be alone.

But these are the only things Carol needs to have to truly know Daryl to his core, and it terrifies her, to be so deep in the mind of someone she’s supposed to be distancing herself from.

What the fuck is she doing?

“Thank you,” Yvonne tells Daryl, bringing Carol back into focus and reminding her that now isn’t about her.

“Ready?” Carol asks, taking hold of the door handle. It’s directed towards Yvonne, but Carol makes eye contact over the woman’s head with Daryl and tries desperately to convey her fear.  _ Brace yourself, _ she tells him silently.  _ Brace yourself like you’re going seventy miles per hour and are about to hit a tree. _

Yvonne gives her assent, and Carol opens the door slowly like the worst kind of unveiling.

For all her fumbles and lack of tact, Carol has to admit that underneath it all Tara is gifted. She outdid herself today. The viewing table is decorated with a few understated flower bouquets, highlighting the small, bamboo casket. They all approach in tandem, and Carol hears Daryl’s sharp intake of breath. From behind Yvonne, Carol discreetly reaches over and gives his hand a tight squeeze before letting it go.

Before them, resting in the casket handpicked by her mother, is a newborn baby. A newborn baby girl, with a tender and tranquil face, swaddled in a crocheted pink and purple blanket. Her grandmother made it in anticipation of her arrival, Michonne had told Carol, and underneath the blanket is the onesie mom and dad had bought specifically for the day she was to come home. 

But she never came home, and now it’s the outfit she’ll wear into the heat of the flames.

“Thirty seven hours and five minutes,” Yvonne says. She peers down at her daughter, her face completely calm for the first time since she arrived. Carol notices things about her that she didn’t before—the swell of all the loose skin in her lower abdomen poorly hidden by her shirt; the way her breasts bulge out somewhat disproportionate to her tiny frame, swollen, expecting to nurse a child they’ll never feed.

“What’s that?” Carol asks. They speak in whispers, like they would if they were trying to not wake a sleeping baby.

“She was born at 1:16 in the morning, and died at 2:21 the next afternoon. She was on Earth for thirty seven hours and five minutes.”

“What’s her name?” Daryl mutters, surprising Carol, who figured he’d be tight-lipped until this whole ordeal is over.

“Claire,” Yvonne breathes, speaking the word like a muted prayer.

“Real beautiful kid,” Daryl says. “Looks like you.”

“You think so?” Yvonne asks, tearing her eyes away from Claire long enough to smile at Daryl. “I thought she looked like my husband. She has his nose.”

“Maybe, but she’s got your face shape. And them lips are definitely yours.”

Yvonne takes a deep breath and turns back to Claire.

“She’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” she says. “Do you have any children?”

And off-center beat of silence passes. Yvonne looks at Daryl expectantly. His eyes flicker to Carol for a nanosecond. 

“I got one on the way,” he says, ducking his head.

“Oh god, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to—”

“No, it’s fine,” Daryl says, cutting her off. “Really. Glad to be here. Glad to meet her.” He peers over the side of the casket at Claire, the only evidence of any emotion coming from the muscle jumping in his jaw. “Real beautiful kid,” he says again, but it comes out different this time. There’s a whole litany of words in between those three, and Carol hopes Yvonne can hear them as easily as she can.

“What about you?” Yvonne asks Carol.

“Sorry?” Carol says, caught off guard.

“Do you have any children?”

Well that’s a question and a half, isn’t it?

“I used to,” Carol says simply. Yvonne searches her eyes and the two of them see the same loss mirrored in each other, and in an instant, Yvonne’s whole disposition towards Carol changes. She’s no longer the undertaker who only sees this baby as a body. They share the worst kind of experience; a pain that only those who have felt it can understand.

“You’re still a mother,” Yvonne whispers. “You don’t stop being a mother.”

Exactly, Carol thinks. That’s the problem. What could be worse than being a mother with no child?

But then, she wouldn’t give it up for anything.

“I know,” Carol says. “And so are you.”

Yvonne nods, and then finally breaks. She falls to her knees, hands gripping the table, and Carol and Daryl fall with her, their hands brushing against one another as they both rub her back.

Yvonne wails for her baby, and the two of them remain silent, heads bowed, not moving away from her until every tear has been shed.

When she’s finished, they help her to her feet. Yvonne unclips a necklace on her neck and lays it gently across her daughter’s belly. No one says anything.

The fuck is there to say, anyway?

*

Yvonne presses the button to start the cremation machine, and Carol sends her to the lobby. She also relieves Daryl of moral support duty, whispering a promise to message him later.

Carol finishes the cremation alone. She grinds small bones down to powder in the cremulator and sweeps all the ash into a cream colored urn with doves engraved on the sides, trying to turn off the part of her brain that sees the baby’s face and name in the remains. Dissonance is hard to come by today, though, and in between unwelcome flashes of the pretty baby with the facial shape and lips of her mother, unwelcome images of Carol’s own daughter flood her mind. She puts the top on the urn containing a thirty seven hours and five minutes old baby, and in her head Sophia smiles her toothy smile with round, freckled cheeks.

Carol pointedly does not think about the child growing in her womb.

After seeing Yvonne and Claire off with a long hug she wanted to end the second it began, Carol shows herself into the mortuary to find some busy work to occupy her mind.

The lights are dimmed, the front door locked, and all the bodies are stored away for the night. It takes Carol a minute to notice Daryl sitting there in the lobby in the dark.

“What are you still doing here?” she asks, surprised. When he sees her he stands up, looking as exhausted as she feels.

“Sat with Yvonne for a bit ‘til she decided she wanted some time alone. She didn’t say much anyhow. Just wanted the company. Then Tara let me in here before she closed up shop for the night. Been waitin’ on you.”

“You didn’t need to do that. You should go home. That wasn’t something you signed up for. I should have warned you, but I didn’t know how to say, ‘Hey, FYI, we’re about to go see a dead baby,’ in front of Yvonne.”

“Nah, I’m glad I could help her feel better. Much as anyone could, I mean.”

“Still. How are you doing?”

Daryl huffs and considers the question.

“Been better,” he admits. “What about you?”

“I’m fine,” Carol says automatically.

“Are you?”

“I gotta be. It’s my job. It’s like I told Tara, I can’t let my own feelings get in the way. Today was just another day.”

Daryl regards her, chewing on his cuticle.

“No it wasn’t,” he says finally. “I saw your face when Yvonne said that thing about bein’ a mother. And with you bein’ pregnant? Don’t tell me that today didn’t make you feel some kind of way.”

Maybe hearing it bluntly laid out before her makes it more potent, but her eyes immediately burn at Daryl’s words. He notices right away and is about to jump into consolation mode, but she waves a hand. 

“Hormones,” she says, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. “I’m just hormonal and tired.”

Daryl takes a step closer into her space and puts a finger under her chin, making her look up at him.

“You know it’s okay if it ain’t hormones, though, right?”

Carol’s lower lip trembles.

“It is though,” she insists.

“You’re allowed to feel things.”

“I don’t feel things.”

“No?”

“I’ve never felt anything in my life. Emotions? I don’t know her.”

Daryl smiles softly. Tears are streaming down her face even as she denies their existence.

“You’re stubborn as all get out, you know that?” he asks. “Strongest woman in the world, but stubborn as hell.” He cups her face and brushes his thumb over her wet cheek.

“I have to be,” she says, cringing when her voice breaks.

“Nah,” Daryl says, searching her face. They’re close enough that she can feel the heat of his breath on her skin. “You don’t.”

“I want to kiss you,” Carol whispers, shocking herself with her own directness. Daryl’s eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You can,” he tells her. 

“But I shouldn’t. We’re supposed to keep our distance.”

Daryl twists his mouth, stroking her jawline absently.

“We can keep our distance tomorrow,” he says.

“What if we can’t?”

“Day after tomorrow, then.”

Carol doesn’t have it in her to argue. She leans up and kisses him deeply. His hands fall to her waist and he wraps his arms around her, hugging her close and kissing her back like his life depends on it. 

They can’t keep this up, but standing chest-to-chest, trying to get even closer still, Caroll feels some of the pain of the day easing up from her heart and can’t bring herself to pull away.

She’s going to put distance between them; draw that concrete line in the sand.

The day after the day after tomorrow.

Or maybe the day after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "heart-boner" is one of the stupidest things i've ever written, and i laugh every time i look at it.
> 
> thnx for being rad, ttys,  
> -diz


	7. VII. Strictly Business

It’s starting to get brisk out more days than not. Halloween came and went the week before, and now all the decorations around town linger with the air of old relics lost to time, with rotting pumpkins squirrels have picked to pieces, and ghosts and ghouls that everyone accepted as socially acceptable suddenly no longer welcome. Worse than spooky decor that has overstayed its welcome are the colorful red and green lights, not to mention the Santas and reindeer, that have been springing up at an alarming rate despite Christmas being well over a month away.

Daryl is at a burger joint with Rick. It’s a mom-n-pop type place, with cheap food, big portions, and menus that look like they were designed by a middle school yearbook team. The two of them have been sitting in the restaurant long enough to have heard nearly every person who’s walked through the doors bitch about the weather, which is drizzly and cold.

(Daryl has a coworker from one of the Dakotas—he doesn’t remember which; kind of assumes they’re the same—who spends every winter talking about how weak people in the south are, and how no one in Georgia knows what “real cold” is, and frankly, Daryl prefers listening to people bitch.)

“What freaks you out the most about becoming a dad?” Rick asks, gesticulating with a half-eaten steak fry in his hand. Daryl scoffs.

“I can only pick one?” he asks, before sucking up the bottom dregs of his cherry Coke with a loud slurping sound. “It all freaks me out. Depends on the hour which one thing I’m worrying about the most.”

“I remember the feeling,” Rick says sympathetically.

“Least you had someone else there to be a first-time-parent with. I’m gonna be lost as shit doin’ it all on my own.”

“Maybe, but on the brightside, you know you’ll never have to deal with divorce, and custody, and ‘Rick, I told you Carl would be spending the weekend with me because Shane’s taking us out to his lakehouse’.”

“Silver linings, I guess,” Daryl says. He plops a pickle spear in his mouth and privately thinks the Forbidden Thoughts about what it would be like to parent with Carol.

She’d be a great mom. Daryl’s sure she was with her late daughter, and in another world the three of them could be a family together. They could eat pancakes with lil’ bacon and egg smiley faces on them on Sunday mornings, and she and him could cheer the kid on at soccer games, and Daryl wouldn’t have to learn how to do every single part of parenthood on his own, because he’d have a partner who was smart, and funny, and beautiful, and—

Nope.

Forbidden.

Daryl cuts the thoughts off with a figurative beatdown to his brain, and reminds himself it’ll be fine, living life just the two of them, him and his kid.

“So are you still pretending you don’t have feelings for Carol?” Rick asks, raising an eyebrow at him, and Daryl wants to punch him. 

“Ain’t pretending. Our relationship is strictly business.” 

“Hm, yeah, okay, and exactly how many times have you slept with her?”

“Listen,” Daryl says, willing his cheeks to stop turning what must be a tremendous shade of red given how hot his face feels. “It don’t mean nothin’.”

“Right. Just a bit of professional fucking.”

Daryl stirs ice cubes around in his glass with his chewed on straw and scowls.

“It’s only been a couple of times,” he says defensively.

That first time. Then the second time that happened thirty minutes after the first time and accidently made a baby.

Then round one and two after that day at the coffee shop.

And then once after they burned a dead baby together. 

And then a week and a half ago when he went up to her loft to take a look at her leaky faucet and they ended up fuckng on the kitchen counter like a real-life porno, but that was the last time, he swears.

Oh wait. Nope, shit, he forgot about the other day when she gave him head after her second trimester OB appointment, but that one is null and void because Daryl doesn’t count it unless she cums too. He is a gentleman, after all.

So really the last time was that kitchen thing. And it didn’t mean anything. Professional fucking, just like Rick said.

“You’re falling for her hard, aren’t you?” Rick asks, and Daryl makes a fart noise with his lips.

“Don’t matter either way. She ain’t mine and won’t never be.”

“Makes sense, though, doesn’t it? That you’d catch feelings? She’s the mother of your child.”

“Nah, not to hear her tell it,” Daryl says. “She calls herself a surrogate. Sometimes an incubator. Once she called herself a baby-making machine working on commission. But never the mother of the kid. Which I get, you know, with everything she’s been through. We made an agreement, so I can’t get mad at her for stickin’ to it.”

“But you  _ are _ falling for her? Because it sounds like you are.”

Daryl averts his eyes, stirring the ice cubes faster.

“It’s professional falling,” he says. “Strictly business.”

*

It’s weird how Daryl’s relationship with death has changed over the past few months. Before that fateful day in the mortuary parking lot Daryl dealt with death the same way most people do—by trying to adamantly deny its existence by filling his time with meaningless bullshit to stave off an all-encompassing existential dread.

But here’s the thing: When you knock up an undertaker, confronting death becomes unavoidable.

Not even in a philosophical way, necessarily, but literal, tangible death has now become a part of Daryl’s reality, and he can either spend the remainder of Carol’s pregnancy being squicked out by it, or he can try and come to terms with it, and of the two options he prefers the latter, which is all to say that right now, standing here beside Carol’s errand boy Glenn, while the kid slides a full black body bag onto a gurney and rambles on with unsolicited information about flesh decay, Daryl is trying his damndest to take it in stride.

He’s not 100% sure what he’s doing at  _ Memento Mori _ Mortuary on this mild Sunday afternoon. Carol had requested his presence, but had been vague about why, saying only, “Uh, I need your help with a thing, it’s no big deal, you can say no, oh hey, my work phone is ringing, see you at three.”

Given that the last time Carol needed his help with “a thing” he’d gone on a corpse scavenger hunt he should probably be more wary, but truth be told, he’s always looking for an excuse to spend time with her. She could send him one of those white boy texts his one female supervisor is always complaining about, saying nothing but, “u up?” and he’d have his shoes on and his keys in his hand before his cell phone screen went dark.

Not because he’s falling for her or anything.

Of course not.

Daryl leaves Glenn to tend to his gurney full of someone’s rotting relative, and sees himself inside the mortuary.

The place is closed for the day, the only patrons inside being the ones in the downstairs’ refrigerator Daryl has had no interest in seeing. He may be getting more comfortable with death, but he is not going out of his way to check out the embalming room, despite Tara’s repeated offer to “show him where the magic happens”.

Instead, he makes his way to Carol’s office. It’s tiny and cramped, as it used to be a storage closet until their little mishap made it so Carol had to move all her work upstairs away from the stiffs. Michonne isn’t even letting Carol near the top of the staircase, regardless of whether or not anyone is being actively being embalmed—something that Carol has complained about on numerous occasions, and that makes him feel guilty for being partly responsible for her banishment. 

“Hey,” he says, hovering in the doorway of the makeshift office, one foot in and one foot out so as to not seem intrusive or overeager, as if she hadn’t explicitly asked him here. She looks up from her computer and gives him a smile that  _ does _ something to him, which is deeply stupid on his part and he hates himself for it.

“Hi. You made it,” she says.

“‘Course,” he says. Like there was ever any doubt. “Um...what exactly did I make it to?” 

At that, Carol closes her laptop, folds her hands on her desk, clears her throat, and says, “You can say no.”

Not a promising start.

“You lose a body again?” Daryl asks.

“No, worse,” Carol says. “I have a business dinner.”

“Gross,” Daryl says sympathetically. “But what’s that got to do with me?”

“Right, so, here’s the thing,” Carol says with a curt, professional air about her. “I’m meeting the owners of a lucrative casket production company, and we’re discussing what will hopefully end up being a mutually beneficial relationship where they source their product out to me and help promote my funeral home, and in exchange I sell their caskets and make us both a nice amount of money. Quid pro quo, Clarice, and all that.”

“Seems pretty straightforward,” Daryl says.

“Usually, yes, but the catch here is that the owner of this company is rather...what’s the nice word for ‘anal traditionalist asshole’?”

“Mm, conservative?” Daryl offers. Carol snaps her fingers.

“There you go. He’s rather conservative, and has a tendency to prefer family-oriented funeral homes, especially ones that have been passed down through generations, with the men being the heads’ of operation. Mortuaries that have names that end in ‘and sons’.  _ Six Feet Under _ -esque places.” 

“Mmkay, so where’s this goin’?”

“Well, I’ve already got a point against me, because this place has only been up and running for a few years, and all my workers are women except my body-delivery boy. But to make matters worse, it seems that an employee of mine let it slip that—”

“Tara let it slip that.”

“Yes, okay, Tara let it slip to Mr. Overland’s secretary that I’m pregnant. The secretary called to confirm the dinner reservations, and asked if I had any dietary restrictions, and if I’m recalling how Tara explained the conversation went from there, Tara said, ‘Not that I know of, just make sure to keep the formaldehyde stored away, and the wine too, she’s got a bun in the oven. Hashtag preggo.’ So that’s great.”

“You really should keep her away from like, anyone who isn’t dead.”

“I try to, but sometimes she manages to sneak upstairs out of the dungeon.”

“Need better locks.”

“I’ll put them on the shopping list. But regardless, I was intending to just wear a loose dress to hide anything incriminating, but now the cat’s out of the bag, and Mr. Overland will definitely have something to say if he thinks I’m an unwed mother.”

“Alright. So where do I come in?” 

“Again, you can say no. I know this is a weird thing to ask, especially because of the nature of our...arrangement. But also I really, really could use this business deal, it’d help profits astronomically.” 

“You haven’t even asked me anythin’ yet, I got nothin’ to say yes or no to.”

“Right.” Carol takes a breath and looks at him levelly. “Will you pretend to be my husband for just like, two hours at a stupid business dinner so I can get some stuffy asshole to source out expensive body boxes to me?” 

“Um. Come again?”

“If I could think of another way I’d do it in a heartbeat, trust me. Glenn’s too young, plus he can’t keep a straight face to save his life. Tara suggested I take Michonne, but I don’t think an interracial lesbian relationship would impress him much more than an out-of-wedlock pregnancy. I don’t know a lot of people. You’re the only man I know.”

Daryl stares at her for a good long minute.

What an absolutely, totally, unbelievably terrible idea.

“Fuck it,” he says. “Sure.”

*

“This one is about his size,” Glenn says, pulling out a dusty suit jacket from a cardboard box in the storage room they’re all crammed inside of.

Standing there watching Carol and Glenn dig through boxes, Daryl is regretting mentioning he doesn’t really own clothes suitable for fancy business dinners. He should have just ran to Wal-Mart right quick and found something on clearance, because now he’s stuck with the alternative.

“You sure this ain’t like, gonna get you in trouble or nothin’?” Daryl asks, rubbing the nape of his neck.

“Oh, not at all, it’s fine,” Carol says dismissively, examining a white button-up shirt. “People leave clothes here all the time and never claim them. They bring in multiple outfits for their deceased to have us to choose from, and a lot of times they don’t want the extras back. Most of these probably would have ended up at Goodwill anyway. And I promise no one dead has worn them.”

That reassurance holds very little weight when Daryl can literally hear the cremator whirring down the hall, and will almost definitely be thinking about some rando’s dead uncle for however long he’s stuffed inside these clothes, but he doesn’t say so.

Glenn hands Carol the outfit he’s pieced together from their makeshift thrift shop, and Carol hands them to Daryl in turn. He accepts them reluctantly and tries to keep his face from expressing any of the things he’s actually feeling. Admittedly, he’s never been great at that. But he tries, and that has to count for something.

“Okay, this is the part that might weird you out,” Carol says then, and Daryl is filled with mild dread, because he’s already pretty goddamn weirded out. What, pray tell, could make it worse?

He watches her reach up to a higher shelf, her growing belly more evident with her torso pulled taut, and for a moment he’s distracted by the thought train that rams itself into his brain about three or four thousand times a day, reminding him that by the end of all this nonsense, he’s gonna be a  _ dad _ .

That has yet to get less terrifying. He’s hoping he’ll adjust to it here soon, though. Or at least before the kid’s first birthday. Eighteenth at the absolute latest.

“Here,” Carol says, breaking him from his melodramatic musings by opening up a much smaller box and grabbing something out of it. Daryl holds out a flat hand and she drops the item onto his palm. It’s a solid gold wedding band.

“Will you marry me?” Carol asks sheepishly. “You can annul it by the end of the night, promise.”

It’s impossible—110% impossible—for Daryl to hear those words and look at this wedding band and not think about what the real thing would be like.

He’s not a romantic. Marriage is not a card he’s ever planned to hold in his deck. All the marriages around him have made him feel better about his likelihood of being perpetually alone. Before his mother died, his parents yelled at and beat on each other with such ferocity it was like they thought the sun wouldn’t rise the next day if they didn’t. Rick has been tied up in court bullshit for almost as long as Daryl’s known him, ever since his ex went and fucked his best friend. Growing up, marriages were presented to him as something you do for tax breaks and condom mishaps, never for love, and almost always they ended up in the bottom dregs of the sewers, with both parties full of unbridled hatred and a lifetime of regrets.

No, Daryl is not a romantic, and this favor he’s doing is strictly business.

But somewhere, in the not-far-back-enough part of his mind, he wonders if maybe a real marriage—one built on love and not obligation—would be different with her.

“This came off some dead fuck, didn’t it?” Daryl asks, squashing any incriminating thoughts with a metaphorical sledgehammer.

“It was this or some nerdy, dumbass  _ Lord of the Rings _ replica that Glenn offered.”

“I’m right here,” Glenn mumbles.

“Don’t worry, no one is gonna miss this. His wife hated him,” Carol explains. “Told us not to burn him with it, because she didn’t want it with him for eternity, and that she didn’t care what we did with it after that, as long as she never had to think about it or him again,” Carol says.

Yeah, Daryl thinks, that’s much more of what he’s used to.

“Sounds about right,” he mutters.

*

“Let me do most of the talking. If they ask you anything, all you gotta remember is that we met after your father passed away four years ago, but instead of spilling his ashes, you had a service and were very impressed with the funeral home and we started talking when you asked me about my business model. We dated for two years before you proposed during a weekend trip to the coast. We got married at my childhood church, and we will have been married for a full year come New Year’s Day, and this is our first child and we’re so very excited about it. Got it?” 

The two of them are in Daryl’s truck parked outside of the restaurant. Carol rattles all this information off to him for a fourth time, drilling it into his head, and he’s trying to retain it all, he really is, except Carol is wearing this little black dress that she said she “might as well wear while I still fit in it,” and he can’t think about anything aside from how nervous he is for this fake date, and how amazing her tits look right now. 

“Got it,” he says.  _ I hope, _ he adds internally. 

“Good. Then let’s do this.” 

The two of them get out of the truck (and damnit, her ass looks even better than her tits) and head towards the entrance. Carol takes his hand in hers and gives him an apologetic look. He laces his fingers through hers and nods understandingly, pretending the intimate gesture doesn’t make him feel some type of way.

Inside, the restaurant is so much worse than he prepared himself for. It’s fancy. Like, “why are there so many forks on my placemat?” fancy, and not even his mortuary-reject-pile getup is enough to make him fit in here. His clothes weren’t good enough for a corpse, so why the hell did Carol think they’d be good enough for this? 

“I’ve embalmed bodies that were less stiff than you are right now,” Carol mutters to him out of the corner of her mouth. “Relax. This will be a piece of cake. And you look very handsome.” 

Daryl isn’t sure if she means that, or if she’s saying it like how you’d tell a little kid they’re handsome after their first bowl cut, but he’s not about to get her to clarify.

“Overland party,” Carol tells the hostess with a dazzling smile, and Daryl’s once again impressed at her bullshitting abilities. If she hadn’t become an undertaker she might have been able to make it as an actress. 

The hostess leads the pair of them over to a table in the far corner where a man and woman are sitting, talking to each other idly. Daryl takes one look at the man’s smart suit and feels like he just walked into class in his drawls.  _ That’s _ how a fancy man dresses, he thinks, eyeing Mr. Overland’s tie that’s a nice splash of color amidst all the black and white. Daryl’s not even wearing a tie. He’s a joke.

“Jonathan,” Carol says, getting Mr. Overland’s attention. He gets to his feet and Carol lets go of Daryl’s hand and lets Mr. Overland gives her a polite side hug and one of those cheek kisses that are just puckering your lips at the empty air next to the person’s face. 

“Carol, what a pleasure to see you again,” Mr. Overland says. “Of course you remember my wife, Patty?” 

“How could I forget?” Carol asks with that same toothy, bullshit smile, giving Mrs. Overland a kiss on (by?) her cheek. “I don’t believe I’ve ever introduced you to my husband. This is Daryl.” Carol looks at Daryl and her smile softens into something a little more real and reassuring, and he takes a deep breath and holds his hand out to Mr. Overland.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” he mutters. Mr. Overland takes Daryl’s hand in a firm grasp and shakes it enthusiastically.

“You call me Jonathan, son,” he says. “I’m gonna have to give Miss Carol a talking to for keeping you a secret from us. You’re gonna join me and some of my business partners for golf before winter rolls in and I won’t take no for an answer.” 

Daryl hopes really hard his terror isn’t plastered clear as day on his face.

“Sounds great,” he manages to say, voice squeaking in a way it never has in his entire life. Mr. Overland finally lets go of his hand and gives him a thump on the shoulder. Daryl is pretty sure this is what hell is like. 

The four of them take their seats, and Mr. Overland picks up his glass of brandy he’s already had brought to the table and says, “I hear congratulations are in order? A new addition on the way?” 

“Yep,” Carol says, rubbing her belly. 

“What a blessing,” Patty says, placing a hand over her heart. 

Carol takes hold of Daryl’s elbow and says, “We certainly are blessed, aren’t we sweetheart?” She bats her eyelashes up at him and he gives her a tight smile in return.

“Sure are,” he mutters. 

“When are you due?” Patty asks.

“Late April,” says Carol.

“Do you know the sex yet?”

“Not yet. Still too early. I’m thinking boy, though.”

“You are?” Daryl asks then, furrowing his brow at her. The corner of her mouth quirks up when she sees it’s an honest question.

“Just a guess,” she says softly. 

“Are you carrying low? I carried both my boys low, and high with my girls,” Patty says. “And if you’re craving salty foods instead of sweets then it’s definitely a boy.”

“I’m only a week or so past the morning sickness. No cravings yet,” Carol says. She takes a sip of water and Daryl sees a flash of sadness cross over her eyes. Under the table, he gives her leg a reassuring squeeze and she returns the gesture to let him know she understands. 

“Can we get this man a brandy,” Mr. Overland calls over to a waitress, who’s busy taking another table’s order. She nods curtly at them.

“Oh, I don’t need anythin’,” Daryl says.

“Nonsense. We’re celebrating, and your lady can’t partake so you have to pick up her slack. Drinking for two, if you will.” Mr. Overland laughs heartily at his own joke, and Daryl makes a strange noise in his throat that he hopes will pass as a chuckle. 

“So I just got the opportunity to see your new line of caskets,” Carol says, as a brandy is set in front of Daryl by the harassed-looking waitress. He thanks her quietly, since it’s clear Mr. Overland won’t. In fact, before the waitress has a chance to stand up straight, Mr. Overland is barking four orders of the day’s special at her, and asks her to “be a dear” and triple check that his steak is medium-rare. 

“Yes, they really are something, aren’t they? And with the name attached we can easily upcharge and not lose any clientele. Are you still doing cremations, Carol?”

“Yes, a lot of people find it to be a better option for their loved ones.”

“Better option,” Mr. Overland scoffs. “Cheaper option, you mean? Daryl, you mean to tell me you haven’t talked this woman out of closing that crematorium of hers down and focusing her attention on burials?”

“Uh,” Daryl says. Without thinking, he picks up his glass of brandy and takes a large gulp, the alcohol going down much smoother than the bottom shelf crap he spent his teens and twenties drinking. Mr. Overland gives a smug nod.

“Good man, knowing not to start arguments with the wife at dinner. We’ll talk, you and I, and we’ll come up with a way to get her to see reason.” Mr. Overland winks at Daryl. Daryl takes another drink.

“Well, you know what would really help increase our burial profits is if we had the Overland name to market out to the bereaved,” Carol says, brilliantly composed despite the... _ everything _ about this man. 

“Yes, that’s certainly true,” Mr. Overland says, chuckling.

“Right, so what do you think about a—”

“Let’s at least get through our starter salads before we talk business,” Mr. Overland says, talking over Carol. She folds her hands in her lap, smiling. 

“Of course,” she says sweetly.

“Such a headstrong woman, isn’t she, Daryl?” Mr. Overland says, and Daryl wants to ask him if he would please just pretend like he’s not here, and to stop including him in this weird boys’ club of his he has no idea how to navigate. 

“She’s just a good businesswoman,” he mutters. His face is growing hot as he downs the rest of his brandy. 

“She’s stubborn is what she is. We met at a morticians’ conference in Chicago two years ago, and she was just as much a spitfire then as she is now. How did you meet her?” 

“Um,” Daryl says, swallowing, running through the list Carol gave him. “It was four years ago, after my daddy died. She was, uh, new to the whole mortuary thing.”

“And you were just taken with that beauty of hers, were you?” Mr. Overland asks, waggling an eyebrow that makes Daryl nauseated.

“I mean, yeah she was pretty,” he says, tongue loose as the brandy makes its way through his circulatory system. “But she did a, you know, real good job with my daddy.”

“Nothin’ like seeing something easy on the eyes to make you forget about your problems for a while, huh?”

Daryl bristles.

“No, that wasn’t it at all,” he says. “Not even a lil’ bit. It was the way she talked to me, her compassion. I could tell right away that she weren’t in it for my wallet. I mean, you work with sad people a lot, you know how them grief feelings can get all messy and confusing, but when she talked to me everythin’ sorta just fell into place. I could see clearly for the first time since I got the call that my daddy bit the dust.” He hazards a glance at Carol, who is watching him curiously. “She’s got the smarts of a successful business owner, but the heart of someone who gives a damn.” Daryl doesn’t chew on a cuticle or tap his fingers or bounce his legs when he turns back to Mr. Overland and says, “Maybe I’m biased, but personally I think you’d be a right fool to turn down an opportunity to work with this woman right here.”

Mr. Overland holds his brandy glass in his hand, regarding Daryl closely. He brings his glass to his lips and takes a sip. 

“ _ Memento Mori _ isn’t the type of funeral home I usually partner with,” he says. Daryl nods.

“Well, man-to-man,” he says, trying not to gag at the words, but knowing they’re for Carol’s benefit. “I wouldn’t worry about what type of funeral home it is. Y’all don’t gotta work there or nothin’. Just send customers her way every now and then, and she’ll sell your product. It don’t gotta be anythin’ more than what it is.”

“And what is it?” Mr. Overland asks. 

Daryl twists his mouth and shrugs.

“Strictly business,” he says. 

*

“God, I have no idea what I would have done there without you,” Carol says, letting them into the mortuary and immediately kicking off her shoes. 

“You’d have figured out somethin’,” Daryl says, standing back a ways. “Just woulda taken you a little longer to get through to him. And maybe a nip slip or somethin’.”

Carol laughs, turning to face him. She walks into his space and smiles up at him—her real smile, the one that does all the funny things to Daryl’s stomach—and Daryl averts his eyes.. He works the gold ring off of his finger and holds it out to her.

“Might be a record,” she says, taking the ring. “Shortest marriage on record.” She’d worn her old wedding ring, which she had buried at the bottom of a box full of stuff from her old life. She told him the only reason she still had it was because it had Sophia’s birthstone on it—one of the only nice things her ex had done for her. 

“Easy come easy go,” Daryl mutters. The alcohol has long left his system, and now standing here, inches from Carol, is overwhelming.

“Thank you. Truly. For what you did. For what you  _ said _ . It was...thank you.”

“Meant every word,” Daryl says sincerely. Carol smiles shyly and reaches out to take Daryl’s hand.

“Do you want to come upstairs?” she asks him quietly.

He does. Badly.

Gently, he takes his hand back from her and shakes his head.

“Shouldn’t,” he says. Carol sighs.

“Yeah, I guess it’s late, and we’ve both got work in the morning.”

“I mean.” Daryl swallows. “I mean,  _ we _ shouldn’t.” 

Carol searches his face.

“Oh.”

“Not ‘cause I don’t want to,” Daryl says. “But ‘cause I do.” 

Carol crosses her arms, closing herself off from him, and nods.

“You’re right,” she says. “I know you are. It’s just...No. You’re right. Period. We should have stuck to this line in the sand a long time ago. And I should have never asked you to do what you did for me tonight.”

“Was happy to do it,” Daryl says. “But I think maybe we both are settin’ ourselves up for somethin’ that’lll hurt a helluva lot more than we been pretendin’ it will.” 

“Yeah,” Carol whispers. 

He wants to say something else, but there doesn’t seem to be anything else to say. Instead, he leans in and gives her a kiss on the cheek. A real one, right on her faded freckles. She’s teary eyed when he pulls away, and truth be told, he doesn’t feel much better.

“Let me know anythin’ about the baby, alright? And I got that appointment we have in a few weeks marked down in my calendar, too.”

“Yeah, definitely. I’ll keep you updated if there’s anything you need to know.” 

Daryl chews on his bottom lip a moment, before nodding and showing himself to the door. He pauses; looks over his shoulder.

“Hey?” he asks.

“Yeah?” Carol asks, wiping an eye with the edge of her finger.

He furrows his brow, kicking at the ground, and asks,

“I don’t really gotta go golfing with that asshole, do I?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: what tf happens in this chapter  
> me: ......  
> me: fake marriage trope it is!
> 
> the freedom of 'fuck it' projects is delicious, ngl. for example, i realized the other day that i've used the last names "gonzalez" and "johansen" at least twice, so i'm just gonna headcanon that there are a lot of gonzalezs and johansens in this universe that die. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> anyways, c u when i c u
> 
> deuces, babes,  
> -diz
> 
> (gas gauge readers, i missed last week due to work, and not my own incompetence for once. it should be updated this thursday. i hope)


	8. VIII. Choosing to Live

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for mentions of suicide

“Okay, why do you look like someone died?” Michonne asks. Carol looks up from the body she’s inventorying for the crematorium, looks back down, and then up again with a frown, and Michonne adds, “I meant that figuratively.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Carol says, signing her name at the bottom of the paperwork she has out on a clipboard in her hands. “I’m just focusing.”

“Just focusing, huh? Have you been ‘just focusing’ for the past two weeks?”

“A lot of work to do.”

“Yeah, there certainly is a lot of work to do when you go out of your way to fill every second of your free time up with it. Seriously, what gives? Is this about the baby?”

“No,” Carol says flatly, setting the clipboard aside and walking over to grab a ring of work keys off a hook on the wall.

“Is it about the baby’s father?”

“ _ No. _ ” 

“Are you lying?”

“Did you get the McGinnis restoration done like I asked?” Carol says, putting her hands on her hips. Michonne rolls her eyes.

“Don’t boss-mode me. You know I did.”

“I  _ am _ your boss.”

“Yeah, but you’re also my friend.”

“Boss first,” Carol says pointedly, but Michonne doesn’t waver. 

“Listen,” she says. “Do you want to go out tonight and play Guess the Death at the bar?”

Carol hesitates, fiddling with the keys in her hands. She sighs. Guess the Death is her favorite game.

“Yeah,” she says reluctantly. “I do.”

*

“Mkay, green shirt. Beer belly with the lack of ass,” Michonne whispers, leaning in so Carol can hear her over the bustle of the Friday night crowd at the bar. She nods discreetly in the direction of a man in a green-striped polo and a pair of blue jeans that sag off the seat of the stool he’s on while he attempts to chat up a couple college girls who are trying very hard to ignore him. Carol considers the man for a moment as she takes a sip of her ginger ale.

“Too easy,” she says after a beat. “Congestive heart failure. Look how sweaty he is just from sitting there when all he’s done is lift his arm to drink his, what? Sixth beer? Seventh?” 

“Maybe, but then again, maybe he’ll annoy those women so much that they just shoot him on the spot,” Michonne says, and Carol hums non-committedly. 

“They don’t look like the type to be packing,” she says. “What about pink dress over there?”

Michonne eyes a rail-thin woman with dyed hair with the roots grown out several weeks too long. She’s young but has an aged face that’s scattered in red scabs.

“Overdose, obviously,” Michonne says with a scoff. “You didn’t even try.”

“Well the guy you gave me might as well have had ‘heart attack’ written on his face.”

“Fine. Do the blonde girl.”

Carol locates and assesses a pretty little twenty-something sitting alone at the bar, nursing a glass of straight whiskey. She keeps checking her phone and sighing, her face dropping more each time.

“Suicide,” Carol says with confidence.

“Why do you think so?”

“She’s being stood up, but doesn’t seem too surprised, so she’s probably in a shit relationship. Her clothes are nice but old, and I saw her pay for her drink with quarters, so she’s broke. She drinks brown liquor when she’s by herself. She’s a walking Prozac commercial.”

“Aren’t you a bundle of laughs,” Michonne says. “What way?”

“Mm, pills probably. Or wrists. Probably wrists, actually, seems the type. And she doesn’t strike me as a jumper.” 

“As long as it’s not a gun in the mouth,” Michonne says, taking a sip of her rum and coke. “Do you know how annoying those restorations are?”

“Should we slip her a business card?” Carol asks. Michonne snorts and elbows Carol in the ribs.

“You’re awful,” she says, sounding delighted. “I forgot why it’s so much fun hanging out with you. It’s been a minute since we’ve done anything outside of work.”

“It has,” Carol agrees, keeping the suicide risk in her periphial vision when she turns her attention back on Michonne. “Life’s been a bit hectic lately. Not a lot of time for bars.”

“Plenty of time for bars, just not enough emotional availability to spend time with a friend and get personal.”

“Yeah okay, Freud,” Carol scoffs.

“Freud? That’s who you go with? It’s not like I said that you’ve been avoiding me because you have penis envy.”

“I’m just saying you sound like a shrink, and I don’t need that. And I have not been avoiding you, don’t be dramatic. I see you almost every day.”

“Seeing me because we are two of four employees stuck in the same workspace doesn’t count as spending time with a friend.”

Carol shrugs and takes another drink of her ginger ale. She says, “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m an introvert.”

“You’re avoidant.”

“I’m private.”

“You’re deflective.”

“I’m getting annoyed.”

“You’re getting some amazing cleavage from all that baby making.” 

Carol pauses and glances down at her shirt that a few weeks ago fit fine, but is now tight around the abdomen and bust. She considers her larger bra size and snorts.

“Yeah, okay, you got me there, you flirt,” she agrees. She pushes an errant strand of hair back behind her ear and sighs. “Sorry I’ve been such a bitch lately.”

“You haven’t been a bitch. No more than usual, anyway,” Michonne says, smirking when Carol scowls. “You’ve just been depressing. And it makes sense that you’d be feeling down. I get that what you’re doing isn’t easy. But also I couldn’t help but notice that there seemed to be a connection between your sudden drop in mood and Daryl’s sudden drop in dropping by the shop. Wanna tell me what that’s about?”

“No,” Carol says.

“Tell me anyway?” Michonne asks, and Carol relents after an impressive eyeroll.

“He thought it would be better if we spent less time together.”

“He did?”

“ _ We _ did. It’s mutual. It’s the right choice. We never should have spent all that time together as is. Now we only communicate if it’s about the baby, which is how it should have gone from the beginning.” 

Michonne seems to consider her next words carefully, drumming her fingers against the bar top and narrowing her eyes at Carol.

“Do you like him?” she asks. Carol raises an eyebrow and makes an all-encompassing gesture at her small but visible belly bump. Michonne laughs. “Okay, we know you like how he rearranges your guts, but do you like  _ him _ ?” 

“He’s a good person,” Carol says dismissively, and it’s Michonne’s turn to roll her eyes.

“Can you answer a question directly for once in your damn life? Do you like him, yes or no?” 

Carol sets her jaw and keeps her lips decidedly closed, stubborn as a mule. Her silence speaks volumes, however, and it’s not like Michonne didn’t already know the answer. She just wants to hear Carol admit it, and Carol’s not going to give her the satisfaction. A smug grin spreads across Michonne’s face anyway, and Carol wants to play another round of Guess the Death, because if Michonne doesn’t start minding her business Carol knows exactly how she’s going to die.

“Shut up,” Carol says.

“It’s not about the D at all, is it? It’s not even entirely about the baby. You’re sad because you like him, and you’re feeling like you got left on read.” 

“It’s not like getting left on read,” Carol snaps. “It’s like starving for a week and then having someone put your favorite meal in front of you and telling you it’s poisoned.”

Michonne blinks, surprised at Carol’s honesty. Carol’s a little surprised, too, and takes another sip of her drink to cover her embarrassment.

She knows she has feelings for Daryl.

Like,  _ feeling _ feelings.

Duh.

But she also knows her metaphor, while perhaps a bit melodramatic, is true. She might savor every damn bite, but if she keeps going to that last spoonful it’ll kill her. Maybe kill both of them. It doesn’t take a genius to know Daryl has  _ feeling _ feelings for her, too. If he didn’t then an occasional gut rearranging wouldn’t matter at all.

But it does, so they can’t, and she’s a starving woman in front of a three-course meal she isn’t allowed to touch, and it  _ sucks _ .

“Have you guys talked about it?” Michonne asks, her tone softer. Carol weakens some of her resolve, shoulders slumping.

“Why bother?” she asks. “It’ll end the same either way.”

When Michonne doesn’t have a smartass quip to say to that, Carol sighs, feeling particularly hopeless and pathetic. She scours the bar again, just to focus on something else, and frowns when her eyes land on someone familiar.

“Hey,” Carol says, thwaping Michonne’s arm with the back of her hand. “Isn’t that the cop that almost arrested you outside of the abortion clinic?”

Michonne turns to where Carol’s nodding, and when she spots the man the look in her eyes turns downright feral.

“Shit, I thought it was just the uniform, but he looks just as good as a civilian,” she says, biting her lower lip. Carol laughs and nudges her friend in the side.

“Go chat him up,” she says. Michonne furrows her brow at her.

  
“What? No. This is girls’ night.”

“Who knows when you’ll get the chance to see him again? Besides, I’d love to be rid of you,” Carol says with a wistful smile. Michonne flicks Carol’s cheek and gives a mock-scowl. 

“Rude,” she says. “But.” She finds the man again and contemplates her next actions. “You sure?” she asks, and Carol nods, perfectly content with an opportunity for reprieve. Michonne hesitates only a moment more before downing the rest of her drink and muttering something about being right back, and then she’s gone, headed straight to the man’s table with the confidence of a trust-fund white kid on a college campus.

Shaking her head, smile still on her lips, Carol turns back around, leaving her friend to do whatever it is people do when they chat someone up. Carol doesn’t have a clue. She has exactly two strategies when it comes to interacting with hot guys, which are as follows:

  1. Ignore their existence entirely
  2. Coerce them into going to a coffee shop for scones and then telling them her greatest traumas until they go down on her for an eon and then knock her up



Everyone has different moves.

Carol gets the bartender to give her a refill and she holds the glass in one hand, wishing it were alcohol. Her eyes unconsciously seek out the girl from before—the non-jumper with the sad face—and grimaces when she realizes they’re practically miming each other, both sitting hunched over, trying to make themselves small to the world moving around them. Carol straightens her back and holds her head up higher to prove a point that no one but herself sees or understands.

“Tryna get the kid lit?” a voice comes from beside her. Startled, she turns to see Daryl leaning against the bar, smiling sheepishly.

“Jesus, you scared me,” Carol says, putting a hand to her chest and waiting for her heart to calm down, except the realization that it’s Daryl standing there and not some rando only serves to increase her anxiety. Swallowing hard, she asks, “What the hell are you doing here?”

She doesn’t mean to sound accusatory, but it seems like quite the coincidence that he’d be at this particular bar on this particular day at this particular time. Frankly, she hopes he is being weird and keeping tabs on her like a creeper, because the alternative is that the Universe is playing mean jokes, and she’s had enough of the Universe’s bad sense of humor to last several lifetimes, thank you very much.

“Here to meet a friend,” Daryl says. “Don’t worry. I ain’t stalkin’ you or nothin’.”

Damn.

“Oh,” Carol says lamely.

“What about you? Gettin’ a lil’ second-trimester drinking in?” Daryl’s tone is light, but he looks concerned as he nods at the drink Carol has in a martini glass.

“What?” she asks, knitting her brows together, before realizing what he means and laughs. She holds the glass to his nose so he can smell it and assures him, “It’s ginger ale. I had the bartender put it in a martini glass so I could make people uncomfortable.”

“Ah,” Daryl says, sounding amused but not particularly surprised. “Shoulda had him put olives in it. More realistic.”

“I did, but I ate them. Then I made him give me a whole bowl full. Your child seems to have a thing for them.”

Daryl snorts, looking at his shoes and smiling a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He lifts his head and glances around the bar, likely searching for his friend, chewing on his lower lip, and Carol tells herself to suck it up when her first reaction is to be crestfallen that he seems eager to get away from her.

When he doesn’t see whoever it is he’s looking for, he asks, “So what brings you here? Hot date?” 

It’s a joke, but he doesn’t meet her eye when he makes it.

“Oh yeah, you know me. I got a man for every weeknight,” she says sardonically, trying to keep her tone light even though the word “AWKWARD” is blasting in her head like a fire alarm.

“Weeknights, huh? What about the weekends?”

“Weekends are reserved for Idris Elba movies and my vibrator,” she says easily, suppressing a smile when Daryl’s face goes red. He mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “lucky vibrator,” but she manages to restrain herself from asking him to repeat it. They don’t flirt anymore, she reminds herself. It’s against the unwritten rules of this whole “distance” thing.

“I’m here with Michonne,” Carol says instead, bringing the conversation back to neutral territory. “She’s hitting on some guy right now, though. That dude over—” She goes to point out the table Michonne was at, and finds it taken over by a couple college kids. Frowning, she picks up her phone and checks her messages, snorting loudly when she sees what Michonne sent her.

“What?” Daryl asks.

“She just texted me. ‘I’ve broken the law and have been taken into custody. Don’t wait up. I’ll pay you back for your Uber,’ followed by three winking face emojis.” At Daryl’s bemused expression, she clarifies, “The guy she’s trying, and apparently succeeding, to get with is a cop.”

“Weird, my friend is a cop.”

“Er, the one you’re waiting on?” 

“Yeah. I dunno where he is. He should have already been—oh.” 

“Oh no,” Carol says, grimacing. “You don’t think…? Check your phone. See if he sent you anything.”

Daryl’s face when he fishes his phone out of his pocket and checks his texts confirms both of their suspicions. 

“‘Raincheck. Met a girl and needed to take her down to the station, if you know what I mean. I’ll pay for drinks next time. I’ve got some interrogating to do tonight,’” Daryl reads aloud. He sets his phone down. “Gross.” 

“Very gross,” Carol agrees. “So, our friends are fucking right now. That’s...what is that? Is it a complication? Does that complicate things between us, or do we just ignore it?” 

“At this point?” Daryl asks with a defeated shrug. “Who fuckin’ knows.”

Carol runs a finger around the rim of her glass, twisting her mouth and debating.

“I’ve missed you,” she says finally. “I know I’m not supposed to, but…” She trails off, and Daryl nods in understanding. He takes up Michonne’s vacant stool and waves the bartender down, asking for a beer.

“I know the feeling,” he says glumly as his beer is set down in front of him. “These past couple weeks have sucked ass.”

“Agreed.”

“That said, I still don’t have the first clue on what we’re s’posed to do about it. Do you?”

“Hmm,” Carol hums. “How about...we repress all our problems for a little bit and I’ll teach you how to play Guess the Death.”

“Guess the Death?” Daryl asks with a furrowed brow.

“Mhm, it’s a game Michonne and I came up with one night when we were out celebrating the last of finals at school. I pick a person and you have to use clues about them to guess how they’re gonna die, and then you pick one for me.”

“That’s fucked up,” Daryl says conversationally. “Alright. Pick someone.”

Beaming, Carol scours the bar until her eyes land on a buff man in a muscle shirt leaning up against the wall, talking with a group of friends.

“Gunshow over there,” she says, nodding discreetly.

Daryl remains quiet for a good while as he regards the man, taking her silly game seriously and thinking hard.

“Heart’s gonna give out,” he says finally. “Pro’ly in his late-thirties or early-forties.” 

Carol, who would have pegged the man for a reckless car accident or an ironic bout of cancer to contrast his obvious commitment to fitness, is surprised at the confidence in Daryl’s voice. 

“How do you figure?” she asks.

“Watch how he holds himself,” Daryl mutters, leaning in close to her so she can hear him, and she tries not to be distracted by his hot breath on her neck. “Balled-up fists, bouncin’ on the balls of his feet, and he keeps hittin’ his friends in the shoulders like he’s tryna be friendly, but he does it a lil’ too hard. He’s young, he’s built, but he’s out here slammin’ shots like he don’t give a shit. I’d bet my whole paycheck that the dude’s on juice. Pro’ly a bunch of them other supplements them body-builder types pop like candy, too. My brother had a friend like that. Dude worked his body to the very edge and dropped dead right in the middle of the weight room, like his heart just sent up a big middle finger and gave up. By the time he croaked, he had two domestics, three disturbing the peace, and a felony assault on his record. Was a sweet kid in school, but puny. Got picked on, so he bulked up the wrong fuckin’ way and it ruined him.”

“Shitty way to go,” Carol says, covering up how impressed she is at Daryl’s observational skills. Daryl grunts in agreement.

“People will do some stupid-ass shit to please others. That’s why people like you are refreshing.”

“People like me?” Carol asks.

“Mhm. You’re the type of person that’ll drink ginger ale outta martini glasses with your pregnant belly out there on display, just darin’ someone to start some shit with you for the fun of it.”

Carol blushes, smirking down into the aforementioned martini glass, not sure how she’s meant to reply to the compliment. 

“What about her?” Daryl asks then, catching Carol off-guard.

“Hm?” 

“How’s she gonna die?” Daryl asks, and Carol follows his gaze and lands on the blonde girl from earlier. The non-jumper. Carol sucks on the inside of her cheek.

“She’s a touch one,” she lies. “What do you think?”

Daryl tilts his head and considers the question.

“Old age,” he says eventually. “Natural causes.”

Carol knits her brows together.

“Yeah? Why are you so sure?” she asks.

“She looks real defeated,” Daryl says, still watching the blonde. “Like she’s just had bad day after bad day, you know? And she’s at her breaking point. That's the face of someone who is one hundred and ten percent over all the bullshit.”

“So how does that translate to old age? You don’t think she’s ready to give up?”

“Oh hell no,” Daryl says with a definitive shake of his head. “Givin’ up’s what she’s been doin’ up ‘til now; lettin’ herself live in like, a stasis or some shit. But now she’s done fuckin’ around. Today’s the day she chooses to live.”

Carol stares at Daryl for a long moment, heart twisting in her chest like a wet rag.

“Take me home with you,” she says before she even knows she’s going to. Daryl, who’s still regarding the non-jumper, looks at her sharply.

“Carol—” he starts, but Carol puts a hand on his chest to silence him.

“I know we shouldn’t,” she says. “I know it’s a terrible idea that’s gonna hurt us both. Take me home with you anyway?” 

Daryl chews on his cuticle, before throwing a couple dollars down for the bartender and motioning Carol to follow as he slides off his stool, just as she knew he would.

If the Universe sent them here to this bar as a test, then they’ve failed. Both of their resolves combined couldn’t keep them apart tonight.

*

Carol, who associates Daryl as existing within the world she’s built for herself at the mortuary, feels some type of way about seeing him in his own space. The mortuary is her bubble—the place that she and she alone has control over—and, consequently, she feels off-balance when she steps inside Daryl’s world. She doesn’t stray outside very often. Almost never, in fact.

The house fits him, in a way. Modest. Well-kept, but not extravagant. But at the same time it’s missing him entirely, like where her space has become her sanctuary, his is simply somewhere to keep his things and lay his head down at night. It makes sense, in a way it hadn’t until now, why he wants this baby so badly. His home screams that he’s looking for a sense of purpose, and if nothing else is to come from this mess, Carol can be glad that she was able to provide that for him.

“It’s a Friday night so we don’t gotta worry about my brother. He’ll drink himself under the table somewhere, and if he don’t find a girl to shack up with for the night he’ll come rollin’ in at three or four and will be dead to the world ‘til tomorrow evenin’. He’s gone more often with his eviction date comin’ up. Nervous around me, I think. He’s been workin’ during the week, though, so I’ll give him credit for that. You want somethin’ to drink?” Daryl is standing in the middle of his living room, fiddling with his keys, seeming just as off-kilter as Carol feels with this change of scenery, and it takes Carol a minute to realize that at the end of his rambling he’d asked her a question.

“No thank you,” she says, slipping off her jean jacket and draping it over the back of the worn couch. She approaches him and gently takes the keys from him, tossing them onto the coffee table. She runs her hands up the length of his torso, and his arms encircle her, pulling her close.

It’s different this time. When they kiss it’s languid, with none of the usual urgency, and when he takes her to bed they take their time shedding their clothes. They explore each other’s bodies meticulously, prompting gooseflesh to break out all over and hair to stand on end. On his way down to his usual spot between her legs, Daryl lingers at her belly, pressing his lips just beside her navel and nuzzling her bump with the side of his head.

Passionate. That’s the word for this. They’re being passionate, which in this context should be synonymous with “dangerous”, “stupid”, and “reckless”.

Their climaxes are the kind they write bad love poems about, complete with a quick visit to the astral plane, where the cosmos hang out.  _ La petite mort _ , as the French would call it. The little death. Carol, of course, appreciates the comparison.

They lie together afterwards, limbs tangled together and skin slick with sweat. Daryl big-spoons her and lazily massages small circles against her shoulder blade with his thumb.

In the silence of the room, after both of their breathing has slowed and is threatening to dip into the deepness of sleep, Carol says, “I tried to kill myself once.”

Daryl’s hand on her shoulder stills, and he says nothing at first.

“Damn, you’re good at pillow talk,” he says finally, pulling a small laugh out of her. He places a kiss below her ear. “What brought that thought on?” he asks softly. “Was it the sex? ‘Cause I ain’t gonna lie—not exactly an ego boost.”

Carol shifts around to face him. She cups his cheek and kisses him sweetly.

“Not the sex,” she assures him when she pulls away. “I was thinking of that girl at the bar. The one you said would die of old age? That’s not what I thought at all. I was sure she was gonna check herself out.

“Last week,” she continues, and Daryl listens intently. “We had a suicide case. This successful civil rights lawyer. Attractive, smart, plenty of opportunity for career advancement—no one could understand how she could throw it all away. But a year ago, we did her little sister’s restoration. Car accident on her eighteenth birthday. And I remember that the woman, the lawyer, she was at the viewing, and her eyes were just...vacant. And I knew the look, because it was the same one I saw in the mirror for ages after Sophia died. Grief comes from death, but sometimes grief creates death as well.

“It was pills. Not her, but me. My doctor gave me pills when I told her I couldn’t sleep because I kept having nightmares, and one day it just got to be too much, and I took all of them.”

“What happened?” Daryl asks, pushing her damp hair from her face. Carol shrugs.

“Nothing. Seventeen hours later, I woke up right where I left myself. Not enough to get the job done, I guess. Slept real fuckin’ good, though,” she adds, and Daryl smiles.

“Did you try again?” he asks.

“No,” Carol says.

“Why not?”

Carol thinks about it and comes up empty.

“I don’t even know. Nothing was better when I woke up. I didn’t have any of those grand revelations about the beauty of the world that you always hear from those people who survive suicide attempts. The world was still bullshit. My daughter was still dead. I was still empty.”

“But?”

“But I figured I had two options. I could live or I could die. And at the time it felt like a coin toss decision, and maybe it was, but for better or worse, I chose life.” 

Daryl seems to mull this over, and Carol gives him the time to.

“You chose a life full of death,” he says finally. “Does that really count as livin’?” 

“All life is full of death, Daryl. At least mine is in a way I have control over.”

“Maybe,” Daryl says doubtfully. Carol searches his eyes.

“What’s your opinion?”

“Did I mention your pillowtalk is killer?”

“Shut up,” Carol says, grinning as she thwaps him on the chest. He huffs a laugh and kisses her cheek.

“I think,” he says slowly. “That we all gotta die, but we all gotta live, too, so maybe there ain’t a whole lotta point in taking either too seriously. Maybe we’re just meant to enjoy the ride.”

“What, we should just live like we’re dying, Tim McGraw?” 

“Somethin’ like that,” Daryl says quietly. He kisses her again, long and sweet, and Carol wants to cry. 

“What the fuck are we doing, Daryl?” she asks, resting her forehead against him and shutting her eyes. He runs a hand up and down her spine.

“Making choices, messes, and the best of things,” he says. 

“It’s all so complicated. You give me shit for surrounding myself with death, but at least death is simple.”

“Death ain’t anythin’. Death ain’t complicated  _ or  _ simple. It just  _ is _ . And bein’ around all that nothingness? If it’s the only thing you let yourself see? That’s gotta get to you eventually.”

“You’re saying you prefer the chaos? Even this type of chaos—the kind between you and me? The kind that we both know is gonna hurt in the end?”

“Hell yeah, baby,” Daryl says, completely earnest. “That’s just part of what you get when you choose to live.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope everyone's enjoying quarantine. weird couple weeks, huh? stay healthy, my loves
> 
> laterz,  
> -diz


	9. IX. Sometimes Words Are Just Noise

“I can see why my brother couldn’t help himself, though, I gotta say, you’re way out of his league. What do you say that after this whole baby thing is said and done you hit me up and I can show you what being with a real man is like?”

Daryl rustles around in his bed, sheets tangled around him, sunlight bleeding in from underneath his plain, they-were-on-clearance-at-Target curtains. He swears he hears Merle in the other room talking to someone, but the only other person that would be here is Carol, and she—

“Are you this charming with all the women your brother brings home?” comes Carol’s voice. Daryl pats around his bed and finds the spot beside him empty.

Oh no.

Oh no oh no oh no.

“Darlin’, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen that kid bring a woman home in my whole damn life. Almost thought you was here to rob us ‘til I noticed you was wearin’ his shirt.”

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Daryl mutters, tossing the comforter off of him and grunting in frustration as he tries to free himself from the mess of sheets twisted around his body. He tumbles out of bed and practically launches himself at his bedroom door, throwing it open and coming face-to-face with Carol and Merle loitering there in the small hallway. Carol looks mildly entertained, and Merle is beaming at Daryl like a kid at Disneyland.

“Caught your woman here tryna do a walk of shame without introducing herself,” Merle says brightly.

“More accurately, I got up to pee and opened the wrong door by mistake and met your brother as a result. You never mentioned he was such a charmer,” Carol says. She gives Merle an exaggerated wink, and Merle is so delighted Daryl thinks he might explode into fucking fairy dust.

“Forget what I said about you bein’ insane for gettin’ busy with an undertaker,” Merle says to Daryl. “So long as the kid takes after her I think it’ll all be just fine. ‘Specially if it gets her looks instead of your ugly mug.”

“So,” Daryl says, addressing Carol as he clears his throat. “This is Merle.” 

“So it is,” Carol says. She smiles and Daryl is relieved that although he personally is going to be mortified or upwards of about six months minimum, at least she seems to be taking it all in stride. “Now, as lovely as these introductions have been, I really would prefer not to make a bad impression by pissing myself in your hallway.”

“Yeah, no, of course, go ahead,” Daryl fumbles, gesturing to the door right next to Merle’s. Missed it by inches, he thinks at her. Could have saved them all a lot of trouble, too, because there is no way that Merle is gonna let this go.

“Woo-wee, little brother,” Merle says in a whisper once the bathroom door clicks shut behind Carol. “How on God’s green Earth did you manage to bag a woman like  _ that _ ?”

“Shut up,” Daryl says, partially because his brother is being crass and offensive, and partially because he doesn’t have an answer. Why Carol took him to bed that first time, and why she seems to have had a hard time staying away from him since, is a mystery on par with like, the Bermuda Triangle or Atlantis or some shit. 

“I thought you said the two of you weren’t a thing,” Merle continues, unconcerned about overstepping literally every boundary laid out in front of him. “That she was doorbell ditchin’ the kid and then goin’ ghost.”

“We’re not a thing,” Daryl says. “And don’t say shit like that. It’s way more complicated, and you can just keep your big nose out of it, okay? Leave her be. She’s got enough goin’ on, she don’t need to add dealin’ with a prick like you into the mix.”

“What are you doin’ foolin’ around with her if you don’t intend on wifin’ her up? That doesn’t seem like your style, baby brother.”

“What part of ‘mind your business’ did you not understand?” Daryl hisses with a scowl. Carol emerges from the bathroom then, and Daryl shuts his mouth tight and wills, perhaps foolishly, his brother to do the same.

“Are you two having fun talking about me?” she asks cheerfully, rubbing her damp hands on the hem of her shirt, which, Daryl realizes belatedly, is  _ his _ shirt, and it’s hanging down to her mid-thigh with naught but her long legs sans pants on display underneath.

“Just tellin’ Merle to fuck off, is all,” Daryl says, exuding Oscar-worthy levels of pretending not to be distracted by her bare skin. To Merle, he says, “Go away,” and then takes Carol by the elbow and leads her back to his room, feeling like a teenage kid sneaking his girlfriend into his house, trying to avoid the prying eyes of his older sibling.

“Sorry about him,” Daryl says before the door is even completely closed behind them. 

“I like him,” Carol says, going over to sit on the edge of Daryl’s bed. Daryl’s shirt rides up and he gets a nice glimpse of her panties and he has to make a conscious effort to keep his blood in his brain and not his dick.

“Bullshit,” he says, walking over and taking a seat next to her.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, he’s an asshole, but if I recall, it was you who told me that there are a lot of different kinds of assholes, and I think he might be the well-meaning kind.”

“Which part made him seem well-meaning?” Daryl asks. “The way he hit on you, or the way he insulted me?” 

“More the way he seemed genuinely happy to know you’re gonna have yourself a future with you and your little one.”

“Maybe I wasn’t listening close enough, but I’m pretty sure what he said about the kid was that he hopes they don’t end up ugly like me.”

“You’re right, you weren’t listening close enough,” Carol says. “Sometimes words are just noise to cover up what people really mean.”

“Either you’re bein’ too deep for me, or I just ain’t been up long enough, but what the fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“Never mind,” Carol says with a laugh. “Maybe I’m just making noise, too.” 

Daryl snorts and bumps her shoulder with his.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks. 

“Pretty good. You wore me out,” she says with a smirk, making Daryl duck his head. “Though, speaking of that, we should probably talk, huh?”

“Mm,” Daryl hums, grimacing. “Surely there are better ways to spend the morning?” To punctuate his point he places his hand on her bare thigh and slowly slides it up towards her pelvis. 

“Quit it,” Carol says, taking hold of his wrist, but he doesn’t miss the way the corner of her lips quirk up. Sighing, he pulls his hand back and then flops down onto his back, lying across the mattress horizontally. She follows suit a moment later and they turn their heads to look at one another, their faces inches apart. 

“You talk first,” Daryl whispers. “‘Cause I ain’t got a clue.”

“What makes you think I do?” she whispers back.

“Dunno. You’re a fancy business owner, and I just fix shitty houses. You got the brains here, not me.” 

“You got more brains than you give yourself credit for. Besides, when it comes to you I seem to lose all common sense.” 

“Ditto.” Daryl lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I meant what I said when I said we should put some distance between us.”

“But?”

“But...I don’t like not seeing you.”

Several silent seconds tick by.

“Ditto,” Carol mumbles. 

“Over at your shop,” Daryl says slowly. “Y’all ever get, you know, people who had been dyin’ for a long time? Terminal cancer or shit like that? People who knew they had an expiration date comin’ up?”

“Sure. All the time.”

“When you work with them people’s families...you ever get someone who’s like, ‘man, I wish I ditched that guy, ‘cause it ain’t worth all the grief now that he’s gone’?”

“No, never. It’s usually the opposite. People say that they’re happy they got the time they had, even if it was never gonna be enough. Why do you ask?”

“Maybe this''—he gestures between the two of them—“is like that. Like, we both know we got an expiration date comin’ up, but we still got some time to make the most of it before it gets here. You know, instead of gettin’ to the end and wishin’ we would have done more with the time we had. Even if it was never gonna be enough.” Blushing, he adds in a mumble, “Maybe that’s stupid, I dunno.” 

He locks eyes with her when her hand finds his and squeezes it tight. He squeezes back and offers her a tiny smile. 

“You know me, I’m always down for a death metaphor,” Carol says quietly. “And it could be that you’re right. But then, what if you’re wrong? What if we regret it?”

Daryl bites back the impulse to remind her that their so-called expiration date is entirely on her terms, and if she wants to change it he’ll be on board 100%, because he knows that to her the deadline is non-negotiable. 

Instead, he says, “I can’t speak for you, and I know it’s different for me ‘cause of the kid, but I already know for sure that you ain’t somethin’ I’m ever gonna regret.” 

Carol sucks in a breath, pulling her lower lip into her mouth. 

“Don’t say shit like that,” she mutters, rubbing her face with her hands.

“Sorry.” 

Carol moves her hands and regards him for a beat before breaching the short distance and kissing him, sweet and chaste. 

“You’re right, there are way better things to do this morning than make noise with words,” she whispers against his mouth. Not needing to be told twice, Daryl climbs on top of her, her legs on either side of his hips. They’re a good several rounds in on a game of tonsil hockey, with Daryl hard as stone against the thin fabric of her panties, his hands shoved under her (his?) shirt, when they’re both startled out of the spell by Merle yelling through the door,

“Yo, Daryl, you know if we got any Pepto? I ate some hot wings last night that got my intestines screamin’ like a bitch in heat.” 

Daryl rests his forehead on Carol’s chest, letting out a string of swears as she pets his hair, shaking with laughter. 

“Sure you don’t have any regrets?” she whispers. Daryl lifts his head and shoots her a glare. 

“I might when I’m serving twenty-to-life for murder,” he whispers back. He plants another kiss on her mouth, and assures her, “But that won’t have nothin’ to do with you.”

*

Daryl is pretty sure his ass is permanently bruised from sitting on these metal bleachers. Like, he’s never been known for the junk in his trunk, but you’d think he’d have enough padding to keep him from irreversible injury, but these things are relentless. They probably should be replaced, but then, he’s fairly certain they’re the only thing keeping most of these people awake. Dary’s fifteen minutes in on a middle school softball game, and that length of time has been enough to make him rethink this whole parenting thing.

“Let’s go Dominators!” Rick yells out to the field of prepubescent boys in dorky YMCA-issued uniforms. Daryl grimaces. The other day at  _ Memento Mori _ , when he mentioned that he’d be going with Rick to a softball game because “his kid plays catcher for the doms,” Carol almost had to prepare Tara’s funeral because she laughed so hard she choked on her spit, and then wouldn’t tell them what was so funny until Carol got annoyed and said, “For Christ’s sake, stop calling us ‘dumb heteros’ and explain the joke or I’m gonna dock your pay.”

“You got this one, Carl! Eye on the ball!” another voice calls out on the other end of the torture chairs, and Rick shoots a withering glance to where his son’s stepfather Shane is on his feet, hands cupping his mouth, as he cheers for Carl. Daryl silently hopes Rick doesn’t have his gun on him.

“No offense, but I’m gonna do everything in my power to make sure my kid ain’t a sport’s person. I dunno if I can stand goin’ to these things all the time,” Daryl says, mainly to distract Rick from his ex-wife and ex-best friend.

“You’d rather they be an artsy kid? You think this is bad? Imagine concerts,” Rick says. “The one thing Lori and I were able to agree on for once was letting Carl quit saxophone because our ears couldn’t take another season of middle school band.”

“Maybe they’ll be the type of kid that sits in front of the TV and plays video games ‘til they meld into the couch,” Daryl says optimistically, making Rick laugh.

“Sorry to be the one to break it to you, brother, but half of parenthood is supporting your kid through things they’re terrible at, hoping they’ll eventually get good enough to make it worth it. You wrote your own epitaph the second you decided not to wrap it up.”

“Great,” Daryl says. Truth be told, as bored as he is watching kid after kid miss hitting a ball going one and a half miles per hour, a part of him is jazzed about the idea of watching  _ his _ kid miss hitting a ball going one and a half miles per hour, or playing “Ode to Joy” off-key on a saxophone, or whatever it is they end up being passionate about.

“You’ll secretly love it,” Rick says then, voicing Daryl’s thoughts. “When it’s your child it’s different.”

Daryl figures he’s right, and that’s all well and good, but Carl, however much Daryl may care about him for Rick’s sake, is  _ not _ his child, and, consequently, he is  _ fucking bored _ .

“How long do these things usually last?” he asks.

“Hour or so,” Rick says. Daryl forces himself not to groan. “Thanks for coming. I know this isn’t how you’d usually spend your Sunday afternoon, but every time I show up to these things alone I can  _ feel _ their pity glances on me.” Rick nods conspicuously towards Lori and Shane.

“You’re good,” Daryl says, meaning it in spite of himself. “Shoulda asked Michonne to come, though. Woulda made ‘em shut right up with that pity bullshit if you showed up with a woman.”

“A hot one, no less,” Rick says wistfully. “But we’re not like that. It’s a friends-with-benefits type of thing, and you don’t bring your friend-with-benefits to your son’s softball game.”

“Sure talk about her an awful lot for someone you’re just screwing around with,” Daryl says. Rick snorts.

“You’re one to talk, Mr. Professional Fucking.”

“That’s different,” Daryl says defensively. “She’s havin’ my baby. That makes it more complicated.” 

“Yeah, and you’re sleeping with her how many times a week now? But you’re totally platonic, right? Just best buds who get naked together?”

Daryl doesn’t bother to mention that it’s not the sex that’s the problem, but the way they hold each other afterwards, or, even worse, the nights they intend to Netflix and chilll, only to fall asleep together three episodes deep in on a season of  _ 30 Rock _ or bad reality TV, waking up hours later with “are you still watching?” on the screen and their limbs all tangled up, like even in their sleep they can’t keep their fucking hands off each other.

“We know what we’re doing,” Daryl says. He is lying.

“If you say so, brother,” Rick says, sounding rightfully doubtful. “I just hope you’re being care—C’mon, Carl! Hit it out of the park!”

Daryl startles as Carl steps up to the plate and Rick starts yelling. On the other side of the toruture seats, even louder, Shane shouts, “Let’s get a homerun, buddy, show these losers how it’s done!” 

“Get ready! Stay vigilant, just like we practiced!” Rick yells over Shane. 

“Remember the form I showed you!” Shane yells over Rick.

“Feet apart, elbows bent, make sure you—oh. Oh. That’s okay. You’re okay. Walk it off. Shit, his nose is bleeding. Is he crying? Fuck, he’s crying. Hold on, I’m gonna go make sure he’s alright…”

Watching Rick try and race Lori and Shane down the torture seats to the field, Daryl shifts around on his aching ass, trying to make himself small under the scrutiny of all the other parents staring. 

There are a lot of things he doesn’t know in regards to his life right now, but if there’s one thing he’s dead certain of, it’s that he’s done attending little kid extracurricular activities until it’s his own blood doing them.

Thank god he’s still got a few years to prepare for that.

*

“Whoa,” Daryl says. “They actually look like a person and not an alien.”

He and Carol are at their twenty-week prenatal appointment, and Daryl’s rapt with attention at the ultrasound screen, seeing his child for the first time since the hospital scare. A teeny tiny part of him had been worried there was no way the weird tadpole thing on the previous two ultrasounds could ever turn into a human being, so he’s relieved to see the kid is, in fact, baby shaped. 

Carol watches the screen too, smiling the smile she always has when it comes to the baby. The one that has about twelve layers to it that Daryl wouldn’t be able to suss out if he tried, but that he definitely knows had sadness in there somewhere. Trying to keep his excitement in check for her sake, he asks the ultrasound tech if everything looks alright.

“The doctor will go over the results with you, but so far I see nothing but a healthy baby,” she says cheerfully. “Did the two of you want to know the sex today?” 

Carol had told him ages ago that it was entirely his decision, since it’s  _ his _ baby and not hers—something she reminds him of every now and then, as if he’s gonna forget that she’s Not Involved beyond incubation—and he’d been going back and forth on it for weeks, and still hasn’t come to a conclusion. 

Feeling like a waiter just asked him what he wants to order before he’s had time to look at the menu, he tries to make a quick decision.

Surprises can be fun and all, he reasons, but also his life is chaotic enough as is without even more unknowns. So fuck it, right?

“Hit me,” Daryl says to the ultrasound tech, who looks to Carol for approval.

When Carol nods, the ultrasound tech beams and points at the screen.

*

“How are you doing? You seem kind of shell-shocked,” Carol says, climbing into the passenger’s side of Daryl’s truck, a little awkward now that her belly is well past the point of “she’s pregnant and not just super bloated, right?” and is in full, “your Eggo is preggo” mode.

“Yeah, I’m good, I’m just…” Daryl trails off. He isn’t sure how to explain what he’s feeling right now. It’s a lot like Carol’s smile, in that it’s convoluted and layered, and he doesn’t know where to begin unraveling it for himself, let alone for her. “I think I want to get drunk,” he declares out of nowhere. Carol tilts her head at him.

“Yeah?” she asks. “That doesn’t exactly sound like ‘I’m good’ behavior.”

“No, I am, but also like, it’s a lot, you know? And it’s complicated. And I been real responsible, takin’ all of it as it comes like an adult, but now I think I earned like,  _ one  _ night of gettin’ absolutely fuckin’ blitzed. Like, if I wake up tomorrow and don’t want to immediately lie down in traffic then I didn’t drink enough.” He taps on the steering wheel, the key in the ignition but not turned on. “You feel like coming over and watching a movie ‘til I get to the point of drunk that I start sayin’ stupid shit? Then you can just make sure I’m lying on my side so I don’t choke to death on my own vomit, and then you can bounce and laugh about how much I’m gonna hate myself in the morning?” 

Carol mulls it over.

“Sure,” she says with a shrug. “Not like I have anything else to do tonight.”

*

“God I fuckin’ hate gin,” Daryl grumbles, taking a gulp of his gin and tonic and scrunching his nose in disgust.

“Then why did you buy it?” Carol asks from beside him on the couch, her swollen feet propped up on the coffee table.

“I always forget I hate it,” Daryl says, downing the rest of his drink with a grimace. “Christ, that’s disgusting.”

Carol smiles, resting her hands on her belly and looks-at-more-than-watches the Hallmark Christmas movie they have playing on the TV just because it was on and they needed background noise.

“Have you had enough booze yet to tell me what has you up in your feelings? This is the most anxious I’ve seen you be about the baby. Even more than when I first told you I was pregnant. Or, I guess, when you first figured out I was pregnant and I confirmed it.”

Daryl chews on a cuticle, before getting to his feet, a little unsteady, and saying, “Lemme get another drink first.”

Carol waits patiently as Daryl rummages through the kitchen for something other than gin, only to find that Merle must have taken anything worth drinking. Irritated, he grabs the whole bottle and returns to the couch with it. He takes a swig, and at Carol’s raised eyebrow he explains, “The faster I get wasted, the faster I’ll stop caring that this tastes like gasoline.”

She nods sagely and lets him get settled before probing again, asking, “So what gives?”

Daryl blows a raspberry with his lips and squints at the TV just because it’s what happens to be in front of him.

“It ain’t that I don’t want a boy,” he begins. “I don’t want you thinkin’ that. It’s just that if he’d been a girl it’d of been easier to not feel like I was gonna be the fuck up to end all fuck ups.” He takes another pull from the bottle.

“What is it about having a son that makes you think you’ll be a fuck up?” Carol asks softly.

“I dunno,” Daryl lies.

“Yeah you do,” Carol says, reading him as clearly as the big E on a sight test sign. 

“The men in my family ain’t got the best reputations is all,” he says with a shrug. “You know what kinda asshole my daddy was. I told you as much, and you seen me in my birthday suit enough to know my back ain’t covered in beauty marks.” He’s been grateful that Carol has never once mentioned his scars, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been hyperaware every time they’ve been on display. “My granddaddy weren’t no better—it’s where dad learned it. And Merle, he’s never hit a woman, far as I know, and he wouldn’t ever hurt a kid, but that don’t make him a saint. He’s done hard time. He’s on parole. He’s an addict. That’s how he chooses to deal with shit. And then there’s me.”

“What about you?”

_ More. Gin. Now. _

“I’m not angel,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the edges to everything in his line of sight growing fuzzy. “I dropped out of high school. Didn’t get my GED ‘til I was twenty-two. Never took a college course in my life. Used to drink a lot back when me and Merle were runnin’ amuck all over town as kids. Never did drugs. Not the real bad stuff, anyway. Did ‘shrooms once. Saw a chupacabra, though no one believes me. But I swear to god I saw it. Wait, what was the question?”

“Why don’t you think you’re good enough to raise a son?”

“Oh yeah,” Daryl says, tongue growing heavy. “I dunno, babe, I’m just kind of a fuck up, and a girl could find some woman to look up to, but a boy is gonna look at me and be like, ‘Fuck, really? This is what I get?’” Daryl chokes on his next pull of gin. “Oh fuck, I called you babe, didn’t I? Sorry, I pro’ly should knock that shit off. It’s pro’ly good, you know, that you ain’t stuck with me.”

“Stop that,” Carol says, sounding dead serious. “You’re an incredible man, and you’re gonna be an even better daddy. Your son is lucky that he’s gonna have you as a role model. Damn lucky.”

“Mm, stop flirting with me,” Daryl mutters with a grin, letting his head fall back on the couch cushion, his eyes fluttering closed. “You ever think ‘bout what it’d be like if we raised the kid together?”

Daryl’s not sure how much time passes before Carol quietly says, “Of course I do. But that doesn’t make it an option.”

“I know, I know,” Daryl says, waving a dismissive hand without opening his eyes. “I like to imagine it, though. Think ‘bout how we could see him learn how to do shit and grow and we could keep each other from shootin’ ourselves in the head at softball games. Christ, little kid softball games are boring, but I bet they wouldn’t be with you. You’d make ‘em alright.” 

_ More gin. _

He knocks back a mouthful and continues to ramble. “You’d be an amazing momma, and you’d teach me how not to be a fuck up and we could have a family that’s actually not a piece of shit.”

“You’d get tired of me,” Carol says, and Daryl isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol making her sound distant or not. “And you’d get sick of being around death, and me being obsessed with it. The novelty would wear off and then it’d just become morbid and depressing. Trust me, you’re better off without me.”

“Nah, I like all the death stuff,” Daryl says, his words starting to slur. “It makes me think ‘bout things differently. And you ain’t depressin’. You’re smart and funny. Real bad shit has happened to you, and yet you can still make me laugh more than anyone else, and you make my life way more interesting. Like, softball games are boring, but my life is like if you had to watch little kids play sports twelve hours a day, every fuckin’ day. But then you pop up outta nowheres and suddenly I’m chasin’ down dead bodies, and playin’ pretend with rich fucks at business dinners. Like, all this death makes me feel more alive than I ever been. And I get that it ain’t forever, but sometimes I wish it was. Sometimes I wish you could stick around. Everythin’ is a little less shitty with you. Like garlic. Every food is better with garlic in it, and every part of my life is better with you in it.”

“I’m the garlic of your life, huh?”

“Exactly,” Daryl mumbles, starting to doze. Absently, he registers Carol taking the open bottle of booze from his hand. He hears the soft thunk of her setting it down on the coffee table.

“You’re a lot like garlic yourself,” he thinks he hears her say, right before he drifts away.

*

“Mrmph,” Daryl groans the second he wakes up and feels how fucked up his everything is. 

“Oh you’re awake. Good morning,” comes Carol’s voice somewhere behind him, and he realizes he’s curled in a ball on the couch, his joints all contorted and stiff, making his hangover that much worse. He lifts his head as high as he can and squints over to where Carol is moving about his pathetic excuse for a kitchen. He watches her pour freshly made coffee into the biggest mug in his cabinet, and then grunts at her when she comes and hands it and a couple Tylenol over to him. He hopes she can decipher it as the thank you it is.

It takes a while for him to become human enough to talk, but Carol doesn’t seem to mind, sitting adjacent to him in the armchair, scrolling through her phone and waiting for the coffee and pills to take effect. 

“Didn’t hafta stay,” Daryl says finally, muttering a swear under his breath when the vibrations of his own voice make the blood vessels in his brain throb.

“I know,” Carol says simply, setting her phone off to the side and smiling so sweetly at him he feels momentarily better, before he moves too sharply and a wave of nausea tells him to go fuck himself. “Do you remember any of last night?”

He remembers all of last night, and is suitably mortified, which is unfortunate, as he still has months to go on getting over Merle embarrassing him in front of Carol, and this is not a welcome add-on.

“Not really,” he lies, figuring that if he plays dumb then they won’t have to talk about it. What is there to discuss, anyway? Like, does he just say, “Yep! I’m terrified of fucking up my son, and by the way, I daydream about you and me playing house all the time, like I might as well be doodling ‘Carol Dixon’ on pieces of notebook paper with lil’ hearts, except none of it matters, because in four months I’m never gonna see you again, and it bums me out a lot more than I’m willing to admit, even to myself, haha, ain’t life a trip”?

Yeah, no, he’s too hungover for any of that shit.

“I say anythin’ stupid?” he asks, rubbing a temple and hoping the jackhammer trying to pierce through his skull lets up soon.

“I wouldn’t call it stupid, no,” Carol says, and there’s a purposefulness to her tone he doesn’t like. He’s not willing to discuss anything. Not now. Possibly ever. 

“Well, whatever it was, pro’ly best to forget it. I been known to run my mouth like a dumbass when I’m lit.” He forces a smile in her direction, and adds, “‘Sides, sometimes words are just noise. Right?”

Carol doesn’t smile back. She ducks her head and trains her gaze on her lap, knitting her eyebrows together as she picks polish off a fingernail.

“Yeah,” she says finally, still not meeting his eyes. “And sometimes they’re not.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i ignore the fact that softball season is not in december specifically so i could make the "catcher for the doms" joke? absolutely. no ragrets.
> 
> anyway, bye
> 
> xoxo,  
> -diz


	10. X. The F U in Funeral

“Dude, you have the Lombardi funeral written down in your calendar for Thursday,” Tara calls out. Carol enters her office to find her employee sitting backwards in her desk chair, spinning in a slow circle as she scans the month of December on the hot firemen calendar Michonne got Carol as a gag gift that Carol never bothered to replace, because it was a perfectly functional calendar, so why waste it? “Are you really into guys like this, by the way? Because I don’t get it.” Tara points at the fireman in a Christmas hat and very little else and scrunches her nose in disgust.

“Get out of my chair,” Carol says, snapping at Tara, who stands up on command. She reaches down and plucks something off the floor and thrusts it at Carol.

“Sorry, boss. Here’s your hemorrhoid pillow,” Tara says.

“That’s not what it’s for, it just helps my back,” Carol says, snatching the pillow out of Tara’s hands and placing it on the seat of her chair.

“Hey man, you don’t have anything to be ashamed of. My sister told me all about pregnancy hemorrhoids. Hell, if you need me to go on a Preparation H run at some point just say the—”

“Did you need something, Tara?” Carol interrupts, sitting down, fingers instantly flying to her temples.

“Oh, I was just waiting for you to get done with your intake so I could let you know I finished the Bolton restoration, and Michonne’s got Miss Price on deck once she’s done draining.” 

“Good. I’ll start getting together what we need for the viewing. Now, can you please leave?” 

“Yeah, of course, but for real, did you notice the Lombardi funeral’s scheduled for Thursday?” 

Carol glances at her calendar where she has “Lombardi” scratched in the small box of this coming Thursday.

“Yes?” Carol says, raising an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

“Well, I mean, it’s Christmas,” Tara says. Carol doesn’t lower her brow.

“Yeah, and?” 

“And...I didn’t know we were open on Christmas. It’s not like, super holly jolly, you know?”

“It’s not like the Grim Reaper takes a break on Christmas to leave cookies out for Santa Claus, Chambler. This family specifically wanted a Christmas funeral, and so they’re gonna get a Christmas funeral. Don’t worry. The restoration is already done, and I’m handling the service myself. I don’t expect you to come in.”

“Is that seriously how you’re gonna spend Christmas, boss? I know you’re not big on holidays—you had that week-old pad thai from the staff fridge for Thanksgiving—but still, all by yourself with a bunch of depressed people? You sure you don’t want me to come in and give you a hand? My family would understand if I had to step out for a hot second.”

“That’s sweet of you, Tara,” Carol says, lifting the corner of her mouth in a small semblance of a smile. “But I can promise you that my holiday will not be improved with you here.”

Tara squints, and says, “Wait, do you mean your holiday isn’t able to be improved regardless, or that me specifically being here wouldn’t improve it?” 

Carol does smile now.

“Go shave Mr. Roberts before his sister comes by,” she says sweetly. Tara takes the hint, gives a salute, and shows herself the door.

*

“Mmrmkay?” Daryl asks, voice muffled.

“Sorry?” says Carol. Daryl lifts his head up from between her legs and wipes at his stubble with the back of his hand.

“I asked if you were okay. You don’t seem as into it as usual. Unless all them other times you was fakin’ it and this _is_ your usual.” He says it as a joke, but then seems to consider it. “Fuck, you haven’t been fakin’ this whole time, have you?”

“No, I haven’t been faking it,” Carol assures him with a fond eye roll. “Idiot.”

Daryl props himself up with his elbows, looking relieved.

“Okay, then is there somethin’ wrong? Want me to try somethin’ else?”

Michone was right—the shy ones _are_ always eager to please.

“It’s not you,” Carol says with a sigh. “My head’s just not in the game. I probably won’t get there tonight. We can still fuck, though, if you want. You don’t have to go blue balls on my account.”

Daryl knits his brow together with a frown and crawls to the top of the bed. Carol shuffles over to make room, and the two of them lie on their sides facing one another. He brushes his thumb over her nose and mouth and gives her a quizzical look.

‘Tell me what’s wrong,” he says, tone impossibly gentle, and Carol wants to smack him for being so sweet.

“It’s this time of year,” Carol says. “I try not to let it bother me, but the holidays always seem to get under my skin.”

“Because of Sophia?” Daryl asks quietly, grimacing at her name, as though he’s not sure if he’s allowed to say it or not.

“Yes and no. Truth is I’ve never had much Christmas spirit. My dad walked out on us when I was five, and my mom was always trying to make ends meet. Half our Christmases were spent with her at work and me at home alone with leftovers and _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ on VHS. Then when I was married I spent most of Christmas day making sure Ed was happy so he wouldn’t lose his temper and ruin the holiday for Sophia. I liked that she got to have at least one nice day out of the year, but it wasn’t exactly stress free on my end. And then the accident happened, and, well, you can extrapolate from there.”

“Yeah, I can,” Daryl says, playing with one of Carol’s curls, tugging on it gently and letting it spring back up. 

“What about you?”

“Hm?”

“Were your Christmases any good?”

“Pfft,” Daryl snorts. “Hardly. We never did nothin’, no trees or presents or any of that shit. I guess the only good part was that we all acted somewhat civil to each other, like there was some unspoken agreement that dad wasn’t gonna dole out any beatings, and Merle and me weren’t gonna fight over stupid shit. I think it’s ‘cause our momma liked Christmas, and us behaving ourselves one day of the year was our way of honorin’ her. Not that we ever said that, of course. We didn’t talk about things that mattered.”

“Do you remember your mom at all?”

“Sort of. When she died I was a year or two older than you was when your daddy walked out so there’s not much. Popcorn strings. I remember those. She’d sit me on her lap in our shitty lil’ living room with a bag of that cheap popcorn and we’d put it on strings to hang up around the house as decorations. She’d even rope our daddy into it. And Christmas was the only time she’d go all out with cookin’. Roast beef and potatoes and pie and shit. I remember those things, but it’s fuzzy. Memories so old I barely know if they’re even real, you know?”

“I get that,” Carol says. She takes Daryl’s hand in hers and laces their fingers together. Slowly, she moves his hand down to rest on her belly. “You can make new memories. With him.”

The corner of Daryl’s mouth tugs up as he flattens his palm over her bump. She knows he can’t quite feel it yet, but she’s well-aware of his son squirming all over the place, the way he always does when Daryl’s around, like he can sense him. Or maybe he gets excited because Carol gets excited whenever she sees Daryl. 

Carol pointedly does not psychoanalyze that.

“Pro’ly gonna go overboard. Spoil the shit outta him, tryna make up for all the Christmases I didn’t get as a kid.” 

“There are worse things to do to a child than show them that they’re loved,” Carol says. It comes out as an unintentional whisper, and Daryl pulls his gaze away from her belly and meets her eye, before leaning in for a long kiss.

He kisses her like this sometimes; like he’s trying to get a lifetime out of her before their expiration date comes up. And while she knows it’s the worst idea, she lets him do it anyway, addicted to the way he makes her feel worshipped and desired. His tongue glides over hers, languid and purposeful, and she makes an involuntary noise into his mouth. A tentative hand slides from her belly down in between her legs, and her knees fall open on their own accord. He continues to kiss her senseless while drawing gentle patterns on her clit with the pad of his thumb, and he doesn’t let up until she’s shuddering and groaning. He smiles against her lips all the way through her orgasm, and nuzzles his nose against her when he finally pulls away.

“Not gonna get there tonight, huh?” he whispers in her ear with a rare but well-deserved show of pride.

“What can I say?” Carol says, already rolling Daryl onto his back and straddling him. “You’ve got a knack for proving me wrong.”

*

Carol has arranged some weird funerals over the years. 

There was the one where the man’s wife and mistress both wanted to participate, and they ended up putting a literal divider in between the aisle to separate the man’s real family from his secret family.

There was the woman who threatened to rescind her payment if Carol continued to refuse letting her sister be buried with her beloved cat. (Since said cat was alive and well, Carol stood her ground, and they eventually came to a compromise on burying her with a lock of the cat’s fur.)

And she’d never forget the one where the deceased’s grandson decided the eulogy he was presenting would be the appropriate time to propose marriage to his girlfriend of three months.

This is all to say that not much phased her anymore.

But this funeral? This funeral is throwing her for a loop, because it’s contrary to everything she’s used to, and she’s not sure how to reconcile it, or even if she should bother trying.

She’s in the middle of hanging up the last of the balloons when she hears the bell on the front door ring. Checking the time on her phone she swears under her breath, annoyed that someone has shown up two hours early for the service. While she debates on whether or not it’s professional to ask them to come back or if she should just let them stay, Daryl pokes his head into the room and smiles sheepishly at her.

“Hey,” he says with an awkward smile. “Sorry I didn’t text or call first, but I was in the neighborhood.”

“You were, huh?” Carol asks, grinning in spite of herself. As if on cue, the baby in her belly starts doing somersaults. “And what exactly led you to the neighborhood?”

“Mm, my truck?” Daryl says. “When I got in it and decided to drive it to the neighborhood?” 

“Ah,” Carol says. Daryl shrugs, trying to seem unapologetic, but she can tell he’s waiting for her to assure him he’s not overstepping a boundary. “Well, since you’re so conveniently in the neighborhood, why don’t you come here and help me string up all this tinsel?” She points to a pile of sparkly gold tinsel she has set off to the side.

Daryl accepts the task without question, coming over and picking up a strand of tinsel. It’s not until he has it unfurled in his hands that he seems to process the request. He glances around the room, which is arranged in a strange mix of brightly colored Christmas and birthday decor. “Uh,” he says, furrowing his brow. “Is this for a funeral?”

“Mhm,” Carol says, taking her own strand of tinsel and draping it along the wall.

“The one you have today?”

“Yep.”

“Who the hell’s it for?”

“Feel free to introduce yourself,” Carol says, nodding to the front of the room where an open casket sits, with a body lying peaceful and still inside it. Daryl, noticing it for the first time, manages not to blanch, although Carol does see him grimace the most miniscule amount.

“Oh,” he says. To her surprise, he sets the tinsel down and goes over to the casket and peers inside.

In her experience in the death industry, Carol has come to believe that most people treat corpses with one of three emotions: Sadness, disgust, or morbid curiosity. The latter two reactions are amplified when there’s no personal connection to the corpse. 

People don’t handle dead bodies well.

There’s the whole, “oh no, I’m mortal, and one day that’ll be me; all I am is a walking meat machine that will eventually be a maggot’s meal” thing, but existential crises aside, corpses just freak people out. They bloat, rot, leak, and, depending on the media you consume, can sometimes rise from the grave and wreak havoc.

But Daryl doesn’t treat corpses the way Carol is used to.

Staring down at the young girl in the casket, he asks, before anything else, “What’s her name?” 

“Gianna,” Carol says, watching him watch the body.

“How old?” 

“Today would have been her sixteenth birthday.”

Daryl shoots a raised eyebrow Carol’s way before turning back to Gianna and saying, “Christmas baby, huh? Explains the decorations.”

“It was her request. She arranged her own funeral.”

“She knew she was dying?”

“She had cystic fibrosis. Too sick for a lung transplant. She stopped responding to medication and respiratory failure became an inevitability. I met her. She did all her funeral planning with me. It happens sometimes, when people are terminally ill.” 

“Usually not this young, though, right?” Daryl says quietly, ghosting a hand over the girl’s face, not quite touching her, and that’s the thing about how Daryl views the dead. There’s no trace of thoughts of his own eventual demise, nor does he wrinkle his nose, or gawk like she’s an exhibit on display. He humanizes the corpses on instinct, seeing not the dead body before him, but instead seeing the person that body used to be.

Once, a month or two ago, Daryl mentioned he hunts; said he learned the skill young in order to keep food on the table. When he talked about the animals he took down, he spoke of them with a reverence, and Carol could feel the deep respect he had for the living creatures. She knew without him saying so that he wasn’t the type that would ever shoot for sport. Death, although a necessity, did not, in Daryl’s eyes, negate the significance of life. 

“You can stay for the service, if you want,” Carol says. “Part of her request was that she wanted as many people as possible to come so that she could, and I quote, ‘put those prissy bitches on reality TV to shame, ‘cause how many of them had their sweet sixteen at the morgue?’” 

Daryl smiles at Gianna.

“Think I woulda liked this kid,” he says softly. “I’ll come.”

“Good. Then you can help me finish setting up, and then we’ll have to get you changed.”

“I pro’ly have time to run home and find somethin’ black,” Daryl says, glancing down at his usual ripped jeans and flannel shirt, but Carol shakes her head.

“Oh no,” she says with a smirk. “This funeral has a very strict dress code.”

*

“You look ridiculous,” Daryl whispers to Carol out of the corner of his mouth as people begin filing in and taking their seats.

“Right back at you,” Carol whispers back, grinning. The two of them are both wearing the ugliest sweaters Carol could manage to find. She at least had time to prepare, hitting up Wal-Mart last week and picking up a snowman-themed atrocity from the men’s section to fit over her pregnant belly, but with the last minute invite, Daryl had to go through the crematorium makeshift thrift shop again. They found, much to Carol’s delight, a Christmas sweater a fat guy bit it in last year, that is two sizes too big on Daryl, and has red and green puff balls stitched into it.

The two of them are far from alone, however. Everyone who’s arrived thus far is sporting the same repulsive aesthetic, per request. And at the front of the room, Carol has turned on the battery pack attached to the sweater Gianna requested she be buried in, and it is now flashing, with embedded fairy lights, the words “Merry Fucking Christmas”.

Gianna’s wish for a large service appears to be more than fulfilled. The girl comes from a gigantic Italian family, and Carol has lost track of how many siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, and everything in between have walked through the door. And each and every one of them have greeted Carol and Daryl like they’ve known them forever. The two of them find themselves receiving handshakes, enveloping hugs, and even cheek kisses from total strangers, which is unsettling in its own right, but what confuses Carol even more is the mood of the place. Never, in all the years that she’s owned and worked at _Memento Mori_ has the place felt so...alive.

“Oh honey, thank you, this is exactly what she wanted,” Gianna’s mother, Paola, says the moment she spots Carol. She plants a big kiss on Carol’s temple and Carol is baffled to find that while Paola has clearly been wiping tears, her wide smile is genuine. She doesn’t slump, or drag her feet, or bury her face in a kleenex—she is present, alert, and, more surprising than anything, _ready_ to lay her daughter to rest.

It takes a long time to get the crowd settled. They’re a wild bunch, talking in booming voices, and laughing boisterously. Everyone seems to know everyone, and would probably act like they do even if they don’t. Even as the pastor gets up to speak there’s still noise, with people not bothering to cover their interjections, ‘amens’, laughter, and tears.

It is the strangest funeral Carol has ever attended. Including the one with the cat lady.

“What are they doing?” Daryl asks under his breath when two of Gianna’s uncles go over and mess with a projector and screen Carol set up beforehand.

“Gianna recorded her own eulogy,” Carol explains quietly.

After a good five minutes of speaker problems that Gianna’s little sister has to get up and fix, the crowd settles down for the first time all afternoon when the living form of Gianna Lombardi shows up on the screen.

“Hi everyone! If you’re watching this then that means I’m dead. Bummer!” says the sprightly girl. She’s thin, weak, and wears a cannula in her nose, but her smile is bright and infectious, and Carol feels herself mirroring it.

“Hopefully my awesome party is packed. Do you know how annoying it is to have a Christmas birthday? Finally I get a December twenty-fifth that’s all about yours truly. I don’t have to share my day with Jesus for once. If I knew all it would take is to die I woulda kicked the bucket years ago.

“Kidding, sorry, I’m kidding. Honestly, I’m really humbled by how many of you made it out today. I mean, it really takes my breath away. Pfft, get it? ‘Cause I can’t breathe? Here, I’ll give you a second to laugh properly...You good? Alright, let’s see, where was I?

“I guess what I want to say for real is to just let you all know that I’m okay. Like, dying young sucks butt, don’t get me wrong, but I had a hell of a ride living. Plus, I got to finish all seven seasons of _Buffy_ , and that was the only thing on my bucket list, so I’m not going out with any regrets.

“Now, momma, pops, and Gabi, this next part’s for you. Don’t let my death get you down. I mean, let it get you down a _little_ . I was pretty baller, so if you’re not sad for at _least_ a week I’ll be offended, but you gotta promise you won’t be those depressing types of people who let their grief eat them up inside. Don’t let me death ruin your life, okay? That’s what I need you to promise me. Don’t think of it as living without me. Think of it as living _for_ me. Go bungee jumping. Get a butt tattoo. Love each other with all your heart and soul. Do the things that make your time on Earth worth it. I did. I finished _Buffy_. Actually, I’ll be honest, I finished it three times. That’s how hardcore I lived. I expect you to do the same.

“Anyway, I love all of you a whole bunch, okay? Even if you’re some weirdo who crashed the funeral to get a plate of my mom’s famous carbonara she brought for the reception. I love you, because love is the coolest thing to feel and I’m gonna spend this last bit of time I have left with as much of it as possible.

“Now stop crying and go eat food and love each other, and know I’m okay. I’m not afraid. Promise.

“Oh! And sorry about the sweater, momma. Love you!”

The video ends, and is followed up by a mix of blowing noses, wet laughs, and gentle sobs. Carol is biting back tears herself, and is surprised to see Daryl swiping at his own eyes discreetly in her periphery. 

“I think I woulda liked this kid, too,” Carol whispers. She leans into Daryl and lets him drape an arm over her shoulder.

He leaves it there for the rest of the service.

*

Carol has never seen more food in her entire life. It seems like every person at the funeral brought a dish, and they are all loaded with fat and carbs, and being deep in second trimester starvation mode, Carol happily accepts the family’s offer to join them. It seemed to be more like a command, anyway.

After a lot of socializing, Carol takes a break, sitting in the corner. She's watching Daryl have a conversation across the room with some guy about motorcycles, when Paola comes over and settles in beside her.

“Thank you for this,” she says without preamble.

“You’ve already thanked me, and I assure you, it’s not necessary. It was an honor to do your daughter’s service. She was a remarkable young woman.”

“That she was,” Paola says with a sad smile.

“How are you doing?” Carol asks.

“Hanging in there,” Paola says. “I’m heartbroken, but also grateful. Incredibly grateful.”

“Grateful for what?” Carol asks, her professional persona dropped, because right now she just wants to understand how this mother could possibly be holding it together. She’s been wondering it all day.

“Grateful for the time I had with her. I’ve known since she was teeny tiny that she would die young. We hoped she’d be one of the ones who made it to their thirties or forties—cystic fibrosis treatment has evolved so much over the years—but she was just too sick. That’s all there was to it. She was just one of the ones that were never gonna make it that long, and we had to learn to accept it. Not that anything can prepare you, not really, but knowing she made her peace? That helps.”

Paola takes a deep breath and glances over to where her other daughter is sitting at a table, leaning her head on her father’s shoulder. 

“You know,” she continues. “When I got pregnant with Gabi I was terrified that Gianna would grow up thinking I was trying to make a replacement for when she was gone, but instead she was ecstatic. She loved her sister, and Gabi loved her. I had a hard go of it for a long time, though, having another kid. It’s like every moment I’d look at Gabi and think, well, what if this child is sick too?”

“How’d you deal with that? That you might lose Gianna and Gabi both?”

Paola smiles.

“Gianna talked sense into me, of course. Always way too smart for her own good. I was overprotective of Gabi, and one day Gianna called me out on it and told me that I needed to do more than just keep Gabi alive—I needed to let her live. She made me realize that I was letting my fear of losing my children overshadow my love for them. I had to reconcile that there was always going to be risks, but the risks were worth it, because _they_ were worth it, for however much time I had with them.

“I was afraid of my children. That’s the truth of it. And fearing them not only impeded their lives, but it impeded mine, too. And if I hadn’t ever come to terms with that? I don’t know how I’d be right now, but it wouldn’t be good. Does that make sense?” 

Carol pushes food around on her plate with her fork and nods without looking up.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “That makes sense.”

*

“Is it weird that this may have been my best Christmas?” Carol asks, kicking off her shoes and climbing into bed. Daryl gets in next to her, shaking his head.

“Nah,” he says. “I had a good time, too. That little girl really put the F U in funeral. Like, a straight up ‘fuck you’ to how people expect shit to be. I loved that.” 

“Me too.” She glances at Daryl and grins. “Are you gonna take that sweater off? Or are you trying to seduce me with all those lil’ puff balls?”

“Shut up, it’s comfortable,” Daryl says, smacking her playfully with the long sleeve of his sweater when she laughs. He sighs then, chewing on his lower lip. “Hey, so, uh, the real reason I was in the neighborhood earlier is ‘cause I got you somethin’. Like, for Christmas. A Christmas present. You know. One of those things.” 

Carol blinks in surprise. 

“You didn’t need to do that,” she says, immediately feeling guilty for not even thinking of getting him something. She doesn’t do Christmas presents.

“I know, but I did,” he says, reaching into his pocket. From it he produces a small box, which is shittly wrapped in silver paper. “I can’t wrap for shit,” he tells her, handing it over.

“I don’t care,” she mumbles, distracted, because when was the last time someone gave her a Christmas gift? Ed didn’t bother in those last couple years, and her coworkers know better. 

With Daryl’s anxious eyes on her, she tears the paper off, revealing a black box that looks like it would hold a necklace or ring, which is nice, she supposes, but she doesn’t know what she’s ever done to make Daryl think she’s a fancy jewelry girl. She wears the same pair of earrings and the same necklace every day.

“Open it before you try and figure out what it is and overthink it,” Daryl says, reading her mind. Obeying, she lifts the lid, takes a moment to process, and then bursts out laughing.

“Oh my god,” she says, lifting the gift out gingerly. “A toe tag?” 

“Yup, with a stainless steel chain, and then a tiny diamond, ‘cause I thought it’d be funny. Guy at the store thought I was nuts.”

“It has my name engraved in it and everything,” Carol says, genuinely touched.

“You’ll be the fanciest stiff in the morgue.” 

Carol holds the toe tag to her chest and shakes her head at him. “I love it,” she says. “Truly. But now I’m an ass, because I don’t have anything for you.”

“I don’t need nothin’. Hell, you’re already givin’ me a kid. That kinda trumps everything else.”

“You helped make your own gift. That’s just lame.” 

Daryl laughs, and then a thought seems to come to him. His smile fades and he chews on his emotional support cuticle, regarding her hesitantly.

“What is it?” Carol asks.

“There is actually one thing you could do for me as a gift. Only if you want, though. That makes it sound like a weird sex thing, doesn’t it? It’s not a weird sex thing, though you might prefer that to this. Hear me out, though.”

Carol pulls her brows together and says tentatively, “Alright…?” 

“Right. So. I know you been pretty set in stone about us and about the kid, but I was wonderin’...I have no idea how to word this. I guess what I was wonderin’ is if you could consider, I dunno, changin’ your mind? That makes it sound simple, that’s not what I mean. What I mean is, like, maybe you could talk it out with me, or with someone, and see if maybe you might feel differently than you did at the beginnin’ of all’a this.”

“Daryl…”

“No, I know, but hear me out, you said you would. I totally get where you’re comin’ from, and if shit plays out the way you say it’s gonna then I won’t hold it against you, not ever, but, and don’t get mad at me for sayin’ this, but I really think that maybe part of why you’re givin’ him up isn’t ‘cause you can’t handle the idea of havin’ another kid, but ‘cause you’re afraid. And I don’t want you to make a choice that big without really thinkin’ it all the way through. And then also there’s the fact that, well, I like you. I really, really like you, and would like you to stick around. That part is simple. And listenin’ to that girl’s eulogy on top of all the time we been spendin’ together just makes me think that maybe we could _think_ about givin’ us a shot.”

“Daryl,” she starts again, but he interrupts.

“One date,” he says abruptly.

“What?”

“Lemme take you on one real date. Not just a hookup, and not us pretendin’ we don’t feel nothin’ for each other. Gimme one day with you where I’m allowed to be _with_ you, and then promise me you’ll think about what I said. That’s all I’m asking. Can you do that? Please?”

Carol’s instinct is to say, “Fuck no, get out, what the hell are you thinking?”

But then she hears Paola’s voice, telling her about her daughters, and about her fears.

Carol mulls the request over in her head long enough that Daryl starts to practically vibrate with nerves.

“One date,” she says finally. “One date, and no promises.” 

Daryl looks like he just won a hundred million dollars.

“Deal.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i'm tired. i also have a twitter now. @dizwritesstuff, should that be of interest to you
> 
> k bye,  
> -diz


	11. XI. Lesbian Wisdom

“Let me get this straight. You want help tryna figure out how to woo a woman you’re already havin’ regular sex with? Why? What else do you want?”

Merle is squinting at Daryl, baffled, while the two of them manhandle a bulky, secondhand couch through the narrow door to Merle’s new apartment. It is not a nice apartment. It smells like stale cigarettes, and the landlord said, unprompted, right after Merle signed his lease, to not worry about “that skittering sound in the walls”. Daryl would feel bad about kicking Merle out to end up in a place like this, except his brother’s face lit up when he received the key, and he seems genuinely excited to have found a place all on his own, and so Daryl elects to be happy for him, and to not mention the roach he saw in the kitchen earlier.

“See, sometimes people do this crazy thing where, when they like each other, they decide they wanna be together for more than just sex,” Daryl deadpans, swearing under his breath when he scrapes his calf against the doorframe.

“So you’re finally admittin’ that you wanna be with your baby momma properly, huh?” Merle asks. “Here’s good,” he adds once they finally get the couch into the cramped living room with mustard colored walls.

“Like he was any good at hiding it in the first place,” Rick says, trailing in behind them with a box full of mix-matched dishes. Merle sneers at him the way he has been doing all afternoon, after Daryl invited Rick along as an extra pair of hands, ignoring Merle’s complaint that he “didn’t want to get evicted on his first day for bringin’ pigs into the building”.

“All I want is to explore the options,” Daryl says, as if he hasn’t been spending his every waking moment trying to think of the perfect date that will convince Carol that he’s the man of her dreams. “But I ain’t any good at this romance shit, and this date’s gotta be special.” 

“I’d say go get her drunk so she doesn’t realize how shithouse you are, but you fucked that one up when you went and put a baby in her,” Merle says, straightening up and wiping a few beads of sweat off his brow. “‘Less you think one night wouldn’t hurt? Don’t they say pregnant women can drink wine? Thought I saw them say that on one of them daytime talk shows. You could get her some wine.”

“So Merle’s suggestion is ‘give the baby fetal alcohol syndrome’. What other ideas have you come up with?” Rick asks Daryl, stepping around him to set the box down in the kitchen, which is less of a kitchen and more like a wall of kitchen appliances with about a foot and a half of counter space. 

“I don’t have no ideas, that’s the problem. I could take her on some real fancy date like they do in movies, but any ol’ fool can do a nice supper. I gotta show her that I’m worth more than those rich prick assholes, with their five-star restaurants an’ expensive cars.” 

“So you wanna lie?” Merle asks.

“Yeah, exactly,” says Daryl. “Now help me.”

“My first date with Lori was at an ice skating rink,” Rick says thoughtfully. He leans on the stove that is technically bigger than an Easy-Bake Oven, but barely. “And then we went out for hot chocolate after and cuddled by the fire. I killed it. And when I told Shane about it the next day he told me it was a pansy-ass date, and that I was already pussy-whipped, which is funny given that Carl told me they went skating for Lori’s birthday last month. Wonder where Shane got  _ that _ idea?” Rick broods for a moment before noticing Merle and Daryl staring at him. He clears his throat. “Anyway, she seemed to enjoy that.”

“Carol’s six months pregnant, and I can’t skate, but thanks for the suggestion,” Daryl says.

“Here, I got it,” Merle says, snapping his fingers. Daryl doubts this greatly. “The two of you go out somewhere real nice for supper—like, get all dressed up and shit—and the whole time, just hit on the waitress. Chat her up, check out her ass, the whole works. Then, when your girl starts gettin’ her panties in a twist about it, be all, ‘oh, I thought you didn’t wanna be together?’ That’ll mess with her brain, ‘cause then she’ll hafta think about why she’d be jealous if she’s tryna duck out on you in the first place.” Merle taps the side of his head with a finger and winks.

“Does it still work if they have a waiter instead of a waitress?” Rick asks with a poorly suppressed grin.

“Nah, man, don’t be stupid, you don’t want her thinkin’ he’s battin’ for the other team,” Merle says. Rick puts his hands up in surrender. 

“Of course, my mistake. Your plan is flawless otherwise.”

“You know what?” Daryl says, heading towards the door to go grab more boxes from the truck. “I think I’ll figure this shit out on my own.”

*

“Please help me, I’ve got no idea how to figure this shit out on my own.”

Daryl is at  _ Memento Mori _ Mortuary—a place he seems to frequent more than his own home as of late—but today he’s not here to see Carol. She’d mentioned to him in passing that she had a meeting with other funeral directors in town to discuss inflation on burial costs or something equally as boring, and decided he would take the opportunity of her being out of the shop for the afternoon to bombard her coworkers with pleas for help, which is how he finds himself currently in the mortuary lobby with Michonne, Glenn, and Tara, putting himself on blast for being a clueless dipshit.

“You’re overthinking it,” Michonne says. She crosses her arms and looks Daryl up and down with an “oh hon” expression. “She’s been more open with you than with anyone I’ve ever seen her spend time with, myself included. Obviously you must be doing something right.”

“Besides it’s not like your entire relationship with her hangs in the balance of this  _ one _ date, right?” asks Glenn.

“No, wait, I thought it did,” Tara says. “Wasn’t that the whole thing? He takes her out for one amazing date that blows her mind and makes her realize she doesn’t want to spend the rest of her life being a depressing, lonely goblin in her little tower above the mortuary. Right, Daryl?”

Daryl shoots Michonne a desperate look. She shrugs.

“I mean, that  _ is _ the jist of it,” she says, easing exactly none of Daryl’s concerns. 

“I dunno why I thought I could do this,” he says, pressing the base of his palms against his eyes. 

“Because you can,” says Michonne. “Trust us, we’re all on your side. We all like ‘getting some’ Carol a lot more than ‘celibate’ Carol.” The other two nod heartily in agreement.

“Like, I know we work with dead people, but she was  _ such  _ a downer before you,” Tara says.

“It wasn’t even anything she’d say. She’s always been nice and fair, and I think she’s a good boss, so don’t tell her I said this, but you could tell that she was depressed as hell,” Glenn says.

“She didn’t seem all that depressin’ when I first met her,” Daryl says, thinking of the woman who laughed over spilled human remains with him in the rain.

“That’s because  _ our _ Carol and  _ Daryl’s _ Carol are two different people,” Michonne says. “But your version of her is starting to bleed over.”

“How do you figure that?” 

“She smiles more,” says Glenn. “And she doesn’t call me a dumbass as often.”

“She still calls me names, but in her defense, I usually deserve it,” adds Tara.

“You’re good for her, Daryl. We need you to stick around.  _ She _ needs you to,” Michonne says, and Daryl huffs a sigh.

“Hey, if it were up to me I wouldn’t be goin’ nowhere any time soon, but it ain’t my decision, it’s hers, so if y’all don’t want her to give me the boot you’ll help me come up with somethin’ to make her stay.” 

Daryl lays it all out there, hating being on display, but not knowing where else to turn. He is  _ not _ willing to fuck this up. The other three all put on their Thinking Faces and consider the problem at hand.

“Surely y’all have gone on at least one date that you remember better than rest that you can use to help me think of somethin’?” Daryl asks when no one has offered anything for a full minute. “This is outta my wheelhouse, but y’all are normal people with normal relationships.”

“I spent my morning putting show makeup on a dead drag queen,” Michonne says. 

“I had to clean up an embalming fluid leak, because I didn’t plug Mrs. Blocker’s butthole properly,” says Tara.

“Me and this hospice worker spent an hour trying to get a morbidly obese guy into my van, because the bariatric power lift broke down,” says Glenn.

“Okay, maybe normal ain’t the right word, but you get my point,” Daryl says. “Like, MIchonne, how’d you get Rick to ditch me to go hook up?”

“I said, ‘hey, do you want to ditch your friend and come have sex at my place?’,” Michonne says. Daryl sighs.

“Fine, but have you ever had a relationship before? A serious one?” 

“Sure, I dated my most recent ex for three years.”

“And how’d you two get together?”

“I met him at an art show, and when he said he was a painter I told him to call me if he ever needed an anatomy model, and then we snuck into a back room and had sex on this bench we later found out was an art installation priced at $3,000.”

Daryl stares blankly at her for several seconds before turning towards Glenn.

“What about you? You ever been with anybody?” he asks him.

“Yeah, I have a girlfriend. We moved in together last spring.”

“Alright, and how’d that happen? How’d you convince her you was someone worth bein’ with?”

“Um,” Glenn says, furrowing his brow in thought. “We worked at the same place, and one day I offered to buy her lunch, so we went through a drive-thru, and when I pulled out my wallet to pay, a condom fell out, and she looked offended and called me ‘a pretty confident guy’, and I tried to assure her that I definitely wasn’t, but then she told me to park the car down this secluded dirt road, and we had sex, and then we’ve just kind of been together since then.” 

“I’m fucked,” Daryl says, letting his head fall into his hands. He startles when Tara thumps him on his upper arm.

“Pull it together, dude,” she says. “Wanna know what your problem is?”

Daryl can think of at least seventeen problems right off the bat, but okay, he’ll bite.

“What?” 

“You’re trying to get your advice from these two heterosexuals, but that won’t work, because you’re not a heterosexual.”

“Uh…” Daryl squints at her. “I’m not...you know I ain’t gay, right? I mean...Carol’s not a guy.” 

“You misunderstand. I don’t mean you’re into guys. What I mean is, well, let’s look at the facts: You’re losing your mind over a hot woman, the two of you moved  _ way _ too fast, are still having regular sex, but also you can’t figure out if you’re in a relationship or not. Daryl,” Tara says gently, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you’re a lesbian.” 

“Ha ha,” Daryl says, angling away from her. “You got any real advice?”

“Don’t believe me? True or false, your first date together was at a locally owned coffee shop where she told you about her past trauma and then you slept together?” 

“I mean, true, I guess?” 

“Have you ever had the thought, ‘what are we?’ while actively having sex with her?” 

“Do you have a point here, or…?” 

“What would you say your favorite food is: A. Pizza, B. spaghetti, or C. her?” 

“For fuck’s sake.”

“You’re a giant lesbian, Daryl! But that’s okay, because I am a veteran lesbian, and I will impart my wisdom onto you in order for you to get the girl.” 

“This is stupid,” Daryl says, while Michonne and Glenn snicker.

“Hey, you're the one who came to us for help,” Tara says, shrugging nonchalantly.

“This is worse than askin’ advice from my brother.”

“Listen, you want a real relationship with Carol, don’t you?” Tara asks.

“Obviously.”

“Like, this is a big deal that could influence not only your life, but the life of your kid?”

“Yes. Thanks for spellin’ it out like that, by the way.” Daryl scowls.

“Well then, tell me—would you rather get advice from Ms. Art-defiler over here, a guy who doesn’t know he shouldn’t keep condoms in his wallet, or do you want to man up and admit you’re a lesbian and get some quality advice from someone who knows women mentally, spiritually, and biblically?” 

Daryl looks at Michonne, who shrugs, and at Glenn, who lets out a couple awkward chuckles, before blowing out a breath and facing Tara.

“Fuck it,” he says, holding his arms out wide at his sides. “I’m a lesbian. Help.”

*

Daryl feels like a teenager going to his first dance, the way he approaches the door to the mortuary while tugging wrinkles from his shirt beneath his unbuttoned coat, and smoothing down his hair, as if Carol doesn’t already know how much of an atrocity he is when it comes to beauty and fashion.

He’s spent more quality time with Carol over these past six months than he has with anyone else in his entire life, but this time is different, because this time feels like there’s a scoreboard looming behind him: Daryl vs. Eternal Loneliness. 

Hesitating at the front door, Daryl takes a deep breath and, remembering Tara’s teachings, lets Lesbian Wisdom course through him before grabbing the door handle and taking the plunge. 

Carol is already waiting for him, sitting in a chair, twiddling her thumbs with her hands in her lap, staring off into space until she hears him enter. The smile she gives him when he walks in is full of nervous energy, and Daryl is marginally relieved that he’s not the only one feeling the tension this proposal of his has wrought.

_ All lesbians have anxiety; just accept that you’re gonna be shitting your pants the whole time and move on, _ says Tara in his brain.

Daryl strengthens his resolve and returns Carol’s smile, as he goes over and offers a hand to help her up.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” she echoes back. She glances down between them where Daryl realizes he hasn’t let go of her hand. He drops it hastily and clears his throat. 

_ If we’re going with stereotypes, you’re the butch here, so you’re in charge of fawning over how fucking gorgeous your femme is. _

“You look real pretty,” Daryl says, blushing as he does. Things like that tend to be reserved for the bedroom, in the post-coital afterglow, when his tongue is loose and his feelings are unguarded. 

“Thanks, but I’m not exactly dressed up or anything,” Carol says, and she’s not. She’s dressed very casually in a plain sweater with a jacket on top, a pair of maternity jeans, and walking shoes per Daryl’s request, but none of that makes his statement untrue.

“Don’t need to be dressed up to be pretty,” he says. Tara fistbumps him in his mind.

“Do I get to know where we’re going now?” Carol asks, deflecting from her own blush.

“We’re goin’ on a date,” Daryl says. Carol shoulders her purse and casts him a glare for being intentionally obtuse. 

“I’ll take that as a no,” she says, and lets Daryl lead her to his truck, snorting when he opens and shuts the door for her. Truth be told, it feels a little foolish and extra, but Daryl is willing to be foolish and extra if it drives the point home that he’s  _ trying _ .

“Any fun bodies this week?” Daryl asks once he’s pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road, privately praying the venue he picked for this date is going to be the right play.

“There was a decapitation where the parents absolutely insisted on having an open casket and the wife, who had all legal authority over everything, just went with it, making for a tricky afternoon for Michonne. She nailed the restoration, though.” 

“How the hell did someone get decapitated?”

“Construction worker got distracted cat-calling a woman and got his head knocked clean off by heavy machinery,” Carol says casually. “Not saying he deserved it, of course, but I’ve certainly seen more tragic cases over the years. Oh, and apparently, he and his wife were in the midst of a nasty divorce over his infidelity—surprise surprise—but I guess a bright side is she’s gonna save some money on attorney fees.”

Daryl grins and glances at her out of the corner of his eye.

“You’re awesome,” he says. Carol doesn’t look his way, but he sees her give a small, coy smile.

“And you’re a flirt,” she says.

“Nah, not usually,” Daryl says, shaking his head. “Only when it comes to you.” 

*

_ Give a damn about her interests. If your girl wants to go to an intersectional feminism themed poetry slam at the hipster coffee shop under the tattoo parlor downtown that doesn’t have any napkins because they’re bad for the environment, then you best be right at her side with a couple cloth paper towels, and if you don’t buy her vegan coconut milk chocolate ice cream from the co-op next door afterwards, then what are you even doing with your loveless, pathetic life? _

The smile that blooms on Carol’s face when they pull up to their destination fills Daryl with palpable relief.

“I know you pro’ly been here before, but I thought it’d be a nice place to walk around, and then grab a bite to eat after. There’s a joint nearby that I thought could be neat.” 

“I’ve never actually been here before, if you can believe it,” she says. “But I’ve heard it’s worth the visit; lots of interesting history within the gates.” 

“‘Specially for an undertaker.”

“Excuse you, but we prefer ‘funeral directors’,” she says, but she says it with a smile. 

Oakland Cemetery is the oldest cemetery in Atlanta, dating back to 1850, and Daryl had been delighted to discover that outside of the 70,000 dead fucks inside, there appears to be gardens, art, and hell, even a goddamn gift shop. People even have weddings here, which was not something he let himself think about for more than a second and a half.

Carol worries her lower lip in between her teeth and smirks.

“You did good,” she says slyly. Confetti cannons go off in Daryl’s head while he manages to maintain an outwardly composed appearance. 

“Just glad you ain’t into poetry slams,” he says. Carol furrows her brow.

“What?” 

“Nothin’,” Daryl says, waving a dismissive hand. “C’mon. Let’s go check this shit out.”

The weather is bordering on brisk, but there’s no wind to bite at their cheeks, so it’s not too bad. In fact, light flurries are falling from the sky, dancing around the vast expanse of land full of foliage, monuments, mausoleums, and tombstones, and the evergreen trees look mystical with their green leaves dusted in a thin layer of white. It doesn’t take long for Carol to slip her gloved hand in his, and they take a leisurely stroll among thousands of Georgia’s deceased.

Daryl uses a map he snagged from the visitor’s center to guide them to the more notable sights, and Carol makes quips here and there, offering up fun facts and entertaining, often off-color anecdotes. 

“This dude was the first person to be buried here, I guess,” Daryl says, reading a blurb on his map when they stumble upon an aged tombstone labelled James Nissen. 

“Oh hey, I know of this guy,” Carol says, delighted. “He was a doctor. Rumor has it that he requested they slit the throat of his dead body before interring him because he was terrified of being buried alive, and wanted to make sure he was good and dead. I personally have never had any doubt that my clients were dead before a burial, but if I did fuck up, I hope none of them dig themselves out. Can you imagine the lawsuit?” 

At another grave, Carol says, “Margaret Mitchell. She wrote  _ Gone with the Wind _ . I got a C on a paper I wrote on that book in high school, and it brought my whole grade average down and ruined my straight A streak. This bitch can rot. Or, I guess, has already rotted. Good riddance.” 

The cemetery is inundated with factoids about the Civil War, the place seemingly very proud of how many soldiers, Confederate and Union, died in and around the place. 

“Apparently during The War this place got eight times bigger ‘cause of all the graves they had to build,” Daryl notes from his informative little map.

“That makes sense. Dead bodies were a big problem during The War. They were strewn all over the place. I had a professor tell me about this one woman who had twelve dead war horses end up in her yard. She let them rot and then sold their bones, which, way to make the best out of a bad situation,” Carol says, and Daryl stares at her with heart eyes.

It’s when their self-guided tour is reaching a natural end, and Daryl’s about to suggest they head out, that something catches his eye.

“What are you doing?” Carol asks when he lets go of her hand abruptly to go inspect the base of a nearby tree off the path. 

Crouching down, Daryl brushes away twigs and light snow that blows away like sifted flour, revealing a single, white flower with a golden center. Drawing his brows together, he takes hold of the stem and picks the flower, careful not to damage any of its petals.

“What are you looking at?” Carol asks, coming up beside him as he stands. In response, he shows her his find. She offers a bemused frown. “A flower?” she asks.

“It’s a Cherokee rose,” Daryl says. “They don’t bloom this time of year. I dunno how this one managed to survive the frost.” 

“It must be a very resilient flower,” Carol says, smiling a smile that suggests she’s not entirely sure why Daryl’s so enamored with botany all of a sudden

“Do you know the story?” he asks. When she shakes her head, he explains: 

“The story goes that when the Cherokee people were forced from their homes to walk the Trail of Tears a lot of ‘em got sick and hurt, and a whole bunch of ‘em were dyin’. Mothers were losin’ their lil’ ones, so the elders prayed for a sign to uplift the mothers’ spirits. The next day, these roses bloomed right where the mothers’ tears fell.”

Carol’s face sobers while she listens to Daryl tell his tale. He rolls the stem of the rose between his index finger and thumb, contemplating his next words as the flower spins slowly in his grasp. 

“I think this might be for you,” he says finally.

“How do you figure that?” Carol asks quietly. Daryl meets her eye.

“It’s a sign of hope. A ‘life after loss’ sort of thing, you know? Maybe this rose bloomed for you, and for your lil’ girl that you lost, as a way of the Universe sayin’, ‘hey, it don’t have to hurt like this forever’.” He searches her face for a long moment and then shrugs.

“I dunno what’s gonna happen between the two of us, Carol, that ain’t my choice to make, but I do know that you deserve to be happy. And I don’t think you let yourself be happy, pro’ly ‘cause you’re scared of gettin’ hurt again, or ‘cause it’d make you feel guilty, bein’ happy when your daughter ain’t here to be happy with you, or hell, maybe just ‘cause you don’t know how to be happy. And I’d be real honored to spend my time tryna make you happy, but if not me, then I hope you find somethin’ or someone to do it. If only so Tara will stop callin’ you a depressing, lonely goblin livin’ in a tower above the mortuary.” 

Carol snorts at that, wiping away the tears starting to well up in the corner of her eyes. 

“That little shit,” she says. “She’s a pest.” 

Daryl smiles to himself. In his head, he hears,  _ You wanna know the biggest secret to wooing women? It’s that there isn’t any big secret. If you’re a solid dude, which you are, then just be true to yourself. You can go on a million lavish dates, and buy every diamond in the world for her, but at the end of the day, you can only be the person you are, so be that person and she’ll either take you as you are or she won’t. And yeah, the uncertainty’s a bitch, but it’s what makes it worth it when you finally get together, because you’ll know that out of everyone on the planet, she chose you. _

“I dunno,” Daryl says. “She’s growin’ on me.”

Carol raises a doubtful eyebrow, but Daryl knows it’s in jest.

He takes the flower in his hand and sticks it in Carol’s hair, just behind her ear, making her laugh. Brushing a few wet snowflakes off her face, he leans down and kisses her for a long moment—no tongue, no urgency, but simply with deep, desperate longing. 

“You’re cold,” Daryl murmurs once he’s pulled away. He rests his forehead against hers and doesn’t open his eyes just yet. “And pro’ly want off your feet. That damn kid pro’ly ain’t the easiest to lug around.” He lets one hand find the swell of her belly underneath the layers of her coat and sweater. “Let me take you to supper. There’s a place called Six Feet Under that looks over the cemetery. Figured you’d appreciate that.”

Carol breathes a laugh, her breath hot on the chilled skin of Daryl’s neck. He leans back to look at her, and she rolls her eyes with a smile.

“You suck, you know that?” she says. “I thought you were supposed to be awkward and shy, not smooth and romantic. How’d you get so good at this kind of stuff?”

Daryl shrugs.

“Lesbian wisdom,” he says simply.

Carol blinks.

“What?” 

“Nothin’,” he says, taking her hand again. “Don’t ask.” 

*

Like a gentleman, Daryl walks Carol to the mortuary front doors where their date began a few hours prior. Not unlike when he first arrived, he feels like a nervous teen again, dropping off his date and trying to work out the cost/benefit analysis of stealing a kiss when he doesn’t know if her father is watching through the blinds. Except instead of dumb teenage worries, he’s waiting to hear what Carol has to say about their future together, or if there will be one at all period. 

“I had a great time tonight,” she says, quoting every romance movie or show ever.

“Me, too.” Daryl says his line.

Carol fiddles with her keys, the soft jingling of them tapping together louder than it should be out here, where the sounds of the night are muted from the bit of snow that’s accumulated. 

“You scare me, Daryl,” she says, raising her head to look at him. “The things you’re asking of me—they’re huge.” 

“Yeah,” Daryl agrees. “They are. Question is, are they huge things you’re willin’ to take a risk on?” 

Carol huffs a small laugh.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” she says under her breath. Absently, she runs her hand over her belly, and then reaches up to trace her fingers over the petals of the rose still in her hair. Daryl waits patiently. Finally, she says, “Maybe.” 

“Maybe?” Daryl asks, heart leaping. 

“Maybe. I know it’s not a great answer, but there’s a lot of shit I gotta work out before I can make any decisions.” 

“Maybe’s a helluva lot better than no,” Daryl says honestly.

“I suppose it is. I just wish it were easier than this.  _ He  _ makes it complicated. Obviously I don’t want to hurt you, or myself for that matter, but we’re both grown adults who can handle it, but him? He’s an innocent bystander in all of this, and what if I decide to...what if I decide to be his mother, and then can’t be all that he deserves because of my own bullshit that he has no fault in at all?”

“Hey,” Daryl says gently, putting his hands on her shoulders and holding her gaze. “You don’t gotta figure it all out tonight. It’s big that you’re willin’ to think about it. One decision is enough for now. We had a good day. Let’s keep it good.”

The corner of Carol’s mouth tugs up, and she takes a deep breath as she nods.

“Okay. You’re right. Thank you. And thank you for the date. It was...I don’t know if I’ve ever been on a date where I felt like the person gave a damn if I enjoyed myself or not. You put up with a whole lot of weird shit, all for my benefit, and I appreciate it.” 

“I didn’t ‘put up’ with nothin’. I enjoyed myself, too. It’s not somethin’ I’d think to do on my own, sure, but that’s the thing about you, Carol. When you’re excited about somethin’, I get excited too. I never been around people who care about life enough to be passionate about anythin’, so seein’ you be passionate makes me feel some type of way.”

“Even if the great passion of my life happens to be death?” Carol asks with a smirk, but Daryl nods whole-heartedly.

“‘Specially ‘cause of that,” he says. He cups her face. “I ain’t lyin’ when I say there ain’t another person on this whole damn planet like you. And I’m glad as hell to know you, Carol, no matter what.”

“Christ,” Carol says with a snort. “No more. Shut up and come upstairs and fuck me.” 

Daryl smiles shyly.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispers, and lets Carol lead him inside, Tara’s last piece of wisdom echoing in his ear:

_ If you remember nothing else, my dear lesbian padawan, remember this: Don’t forget to eat her out. Eat her out like you’ve been starving for years and she’s a full course meal. Eat her out like it’s Thanksgiving, and she’s the feast. Learn to ration your oxygen and get ready for some deep sea diving, ‘cause you’re not coming up for air until she’s straight up coming, alright? And listen, if you die, you die, but shit, man, what could be a more honorable death? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all of my years being queer and being in queer spaces were all culminating to this one fanfic chapter where i got to make a bunch of rly stupid lesbian jokes, and it was totally worth it
> 
> also, i now know a shitton about a cemetery i've never been to, including that apparenly a lil nas x music video was filmed there. -the more you know gif-
> 
> later,  
> -diz


	12. XII. We're With You, Carol

Support groups are like if the color grey was an activity.

They always take place in a bland, cramped room in a church. Usually there are crucifixes, giant portraits of Jesus, and/or ugly stock paintings of flowers on the wall, the latter being especially bizarre, because it means that someone at some point went to a fucking Target or Hallmark store, saw a painting of some boring-ass flowers, and thought, “You know my drab conference room has been missing?” What would the Property Brothers think?

The chairs always feel like medieval torture devices, the plastic so rock-hard you’d think it popped a Viagra and is getting ready for a porno starring you as its partner, and by the time the group ends you’ve been so vigorously fucked you won’t walk straight for the next day and a half. 

The air always smells like stale books. Like, you know that book you’ve had crammed on the very bottom shelf of your bookshelf that you’ve been vowing to read for at least eight years, but the last time you touched it was in 2013 when you smashed a spider with it, and there are still guts and a few spider legs stuck to it? That’s what support groups smell like.

But the worst is always the people, which isn’t surprising, since people are generally the worst part of everything.

Support group attendees come in three categories:

  1. “I don’t want to be here, but someone or something is forcing me to attend.”
  2. “I came here because I appreciate having an allotted hour in my week where I can just fucking cry, okay? Sometimes I need to cry, and that’s _okay_.”
  3. “I stopped needing support group years ago, but I’ve attended so long that it’s now an inextricable part of my identity, and if I quit then I would need a support group for the loss of my support group, and also I’m always trying to get the reluctant attendees to go out for coffee to discuss why they’re reluctant to let themselves _feel_ , don’t you know that in order to heal you need to let yourself _feel_?” 



This is all to say, Carol fucking hate support groups.

She finds herself at one anyway, much to her chagrin, because she told Daryl ‘maybe’, and in order to come up with a more concrete answer she needs to face those deep seeded traumas she’s been quite content to ignore for several years now, and what better place to unbury repressed emotions than a local support group?

(Frankly, she’d rather drink formaldehyde, and curses Daryl for tricking her into this by telling her sweet stories about flowers and giving her multiple orgasms on a weekly basis.)

Sitting in the torture chairs is especially awful with her pregnant belly already trying to snap her spine in half. She shifts this way and that on the hard plastic that creaks under her extra weight, but she is more likely to perform a resurrection during a funeral service than she is to find a comfortable position on this chair, and she resigns herself to an hour of pain she intends to make Daryl work out of her back and shoulders later on.

People filter in as the clock ticks towards the top of the hour, and Carol distracts herself from her burning sciatic nerve by silently assessing and judging each person as they enter the room. She decides to play a new variation on Guess the Death called, Guess Who Died.

There’s a man with an untrimmed beard and wrinkled clothes that look slept in. He’s wearing a baseball cap with a logo that’s so worn away that Carol can’t make out what it’s supposed to be. The chairs in the room are arranged in a circle, meaning there are no corners to hide in, but he takes the seat closest to the edge of the room—the next best thing—and glances around nervously, while twisting a gold wedding band around on his ring finger.

Easy. Dead wife. Recent, too. The straight male widowers Carol gets back at the mortuary always seem lost, unsure of what to do with all the feeling they’ve never been taught how to handle. They always try to channel their inner Spock, but usually all it takes to initiate the mental breakdown is for Carol to put a hand on their back and solemnly say, “Hey. It’s okay to not be okay.”

A lot of men won’t cry without permission. Especially between the ages of 18-65. That’s probably why they tend to cry the hardest when they inevitably lose their shit. Emotional constipation. Carol wonders idly if there’s any money to be made in a tear duct enema. 

She turns her attention on the haggard woman in her early 40s, whispering harshly into her cell, “I told you, I left supper in the fridge, all you need to do is pop it into the oven. Do you think you can handle feeding the children so I can have one single hour out of the week to take care of _me_?”

Dead mother or father. Probably after a long illness, or prolonged dementia. Carol’s bet is on mother, given how harassed she sounds to whoever is on the other end of the phone. In her experience, women who lose their fathers get an extra dose of patience towards their husbands, and ones that lose their mothers get a patience deficiency. Carol, whose father is still shopping for that pack of smokes he went out to grab at the store over three decades ago, and whose mother stopped talking to her after she married a man who beat her, has no strong feeling either way in regards to her parents’ mortality, but she can see how someone would. 

Carol tears her eyes from the woman and glances around the room. She examines each person critically, cataloguing the way they hold themselves, what clothes they’re wearing, what they’re doing with their hands—anything that gives clues to why they’re spending their evening in a stuffy church conference room. It takes Carol a moment to realize she’s not just people watching; she’s searching. She’s searching for her own reflection. Someone who’s here for the same reason she is; for that same unthinkable type of loss—a parent without their child.

There are deceased grandparents, a lost sister or brother, and a young college student with a dead dad, but the familiarity Carol’s seeking isn’t here, and although she’s never been one to try and bond with another person over shared pain—god forbid—she can’t help feeling alone. 

Of course, she thinks bitterly, of course she would be the type of person who could sit in a room full of people and manage to be lonely.

“Gather up, everyone, gather up and let’s begin,” says the group leader. She’s a 40-something white woman in a flowy, bohemian dress, and brown gladiator sandals, despite the fact that it’s around fifty degrees outside. On her wrists and ankles she has braided bracelets. A couple of them have tiny bells. Her hair is dirty blonde, hanging down to her waist, and pushed out of her face by a tie-dye scarf. 

Carol hates her on sight.

Once everyone is seated, the hippie bitch smiles, holds her hands out in front of her, and says, “Welcome. For those of you who are new, my name is Kim.”

“Hi, Kim,” the group rumbles automatically. 

“Hi, Kim,” Carol mutters a second behind everyone else.

“A few ground rules,” Kim says, speaking with a breathy, gentle cadence that grates on Carol’s nerves. “Be respectful. Remember that everyone here is at a different point in their journey, and there is no correct path to walk through the dense forest of grief.”

Carol wonders if she could fake preterm labor to get out of this.

“No one is required to speak, of course, but everyone is highly encouraged to at least give it a go. This is a safe place to share all those heavy burdens you’ve been lugging around with you. Let others help carry your load, by not just hearing, but _listening_ to you. Remember, we were blessed with one mouth, but _two_ ears.”

She brought a water bottle with her. If she’s stealthy enough she could pour it on her lap and pretend her water broke.

“Now, I see we have a couple new faces joining us today. Would anyone want to introduce themselves to the group?”

Over half of the room, including Kim, look Carol’s way, who blinks in surprise. Kim said there were other new people, too, why aren’t they targeting them? That hardly seems fair. Although, Carol figures with a sigh, most of them probably aren’t as conspicuous as the awkward pregnant woman. She silently tells off the baby, who punches her in the liver in return, totally unrepentant. The little shit.

“Uh. I’m Carol.” 

“Hi, Carol,” says the room. Carol starts to grimace and then tries to morph it into a smile at the last second. She hopes it doesn’t look as painful and monstrous as she’s pretty sure it does.

“Do you feel up to telling us about what brings you here today, Carol?” Kim asks, leaning forward in her chair, palms down on her lap, and staring intently to let her know that she’s not just hearing, but _listening_.

“Uh,” Carol falters. “Grief? I guess?” 

“Yes,” Kim says, nodding sagely. “And who are you grieving, Carol?” 

(Does this woman think Carol will forget her name if she doesn’t end every sentence with it?)

“Er, my daughter.” She’s already past her comfort level in terms of emotional vulnerability and it’s only been about five minutes, but she came all the way out here, and she owes it to Daryl and the little shit still squaring up with her internal organs to try, so what the hell, right? Go big or go home. 

(She’d much rather go home.)

“She didn’t die recently or anything, but, uh, it’s the anniversary of her death next week, and usually it’s just a shitty day, and I get through it, but this year is different, ‘cause, well…” She gestures indelicately at her swollen midsection. 

“I can only imagine the complicated feelings that must come with a pregnancy after the loss of a child, Carol,” Kim says in her breathy voice.

Carol huffs a breath of laughter. _You don’t know the half of it,_ she thinks.

“What have you done in the past to help you get through this difficult anniversary, Carol?”

Carol is starting to hate the sound of her own name.

“Usually I find things to keep myself distracted, like binging my favorite _Six Feet Under_ episodes, or writing updated funeral plans for myself and my employees.”

“Sorry, what was that second thing, Carol?”

“I said I do normal things to keep myself distracted, and then I stopped talking.” She smiles sweetly when Kim furrows her brow at her.

“Um...alright. Well, do you have anyone to spend the day with? Someone to support you, Carol?”

“I tend to avoid people for most of it, but I’ve been thinking that this year I might have my...uh...might have the baby’s father come with me to my daughter’s grave. I haven’t been in, hell, years. Seemed like too much, you know? But, I dunno, maybe I should.” Carol frowns down at her lap, blushing at her openness, and feeling a familiar guilt she gets whenever she thinks about her daughter’s neglected grave.

“Whatever you choose to do, remember you’ll get through it, and that we’re with you, Carol,” Kim says, looking expectantly at the group.

“We’re with you, Carol,” they all echo robotically. Carol snorts, but her small smile is genuine.

“Thanks,” she mutters, and is surprised to find she means it. 

*

“And they said it all in unison, like they rehearsed it beforehand. Why do support groups always feel just a little bit culty?” Carol asks, and then adds with a moan, “Oh god, right there.”

“Want it hard or soft?” Daryl asks.

“Hard.”

Daryl presses his thumbs in between two vertebrae on her lower back and massages the sore muscles around them, laughing at the dirty noises Carol makes as he hits the sweet spot. Without moving his hands he kisses her shoulder, most of her body on display as she sits in front of him on the bed in nothing but underwear and a tight, white cami.

“I tried one of them al-anon meetings once,” he says. “You know, the group for friends and family of addicts, or whatever. I hated it. They had us readin’ all these weird passages, and recitin’ that serenity prayer that every alcoholic, junkie, and anyone related to them could say in their sleep.”

“I didn’t have to say any prayers, but the crunchy-as-fuck group leader had us hold hands at the end and do a guided breathing exercise, which, I’m sorry, but how the hell am I supposed to focus on my breathing when I’m busy thinking about how unnaturaly sweaty the guy next to me’s hand is?”

“Maybe I should get my hands real sweaty when you’re givin’ birth. Keep you distracted from the pain.”

“Foolproof plan,” Carol says, making Daryl laugh. He nuzzles the back of her neck with his nose.

“That group sounds dumb as hell,” he says sympathetically. “Thank you for goin’, though. I know why you did, and it means a lot.” 

“This is a big decision to make,” Carol says with a shrug. “I have to take it seriously.”

Even without seeing his face, Carol can practically feel the beaming smile he gives her. It scares her a little, truth be told, because she wants to keep being the reason for his smile, but she’s still not sure if she can.

She won’t have the answer for that tonight, though, so instead she blocks the thought before it can get overwhelming, and asks, “Hey, would you do something kind of awkward and depressing with me next week?”

Daryl’s hands pause on her back for only a second before resuming. 

“Let’s be real,” he says. “After everythin’, there ain’t much I won’t do at this point. What’s up?”

“Would you come stand stoically next to me at Sophia’s grave on Thursday? It’s the anniversary of her death, and I told the support cult—sorry, group—that I’d go there to try and access my feelings or whatever.”

Daryl stops rubbing Carol’s back entirely, ignoring her noise of protest as he nudges her gently to get her to turn around and face him.

“Wait,” he says, searching her face with a bemused expression. “Thursday is the anniversary of Sophia’s death? Sophia died on _Valentines Day_?” 

“Yeah, Ed never was much of a romantic.” 

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart, why the hell didn’t you tell me before now? I had no clue it was comin’ up.” 

“I mean, a general dislike of expressing anything close to sadness or grief? You know, the usual?” 

Daryl pushes a strand of hair behind Carol’s ear with a sigh.

“Of course I’ll go with you,” he says. The corner of Carol’s lip quirks up in an appreciative, if deeply uncomfortable smile.

“Thank you,” she says.

“‘Course,” he says again, pecking her on the cheek. Then, with a teasing smirk, he whispers, “I’m with you, Carol.” 

Carol snorts, shoving him in the chest.

“Shut up,” she says, and kisses him on the lips.

*

Carol rifles through the papers spread out across the table in front of her until she finds the one she’s looking for. Scanning the page, she says, “And you’re _sure_ you’re still set on cremation?” 

“Of course,” says Michonne, leaning back on the intake room couch, her arms spread across the back cushion, her feet propped up on the table inches from Carol’s mess of documents. “You know the only person I would trust to do my restoration is me, and I know I’ll be busy that day.” 

“Tara’s getting pretty good,” Carol counters, and Michonne scoffs.

“Stop trying to make a sale. I’ll take a cremation, thank you very much. A lot of sculptors can try and recreate David, but they’re never gonna master the original genius.” 

“Just so we’re clear, you’re Michaelangelo in this analogy?” Carol asks. Michonne shrugs nonchalantly.

“That’s what they call me. The Michelangelo of Mortuary Science.” The two women meet each other’s eyes for a beat, before cracking up.

“I guess we know what your tombstone will say.”

“The Michelangelo of Mortuary Science?”

“No. ‘Pretentious douchebag’,” Carol clarifies, coaxing a few more giggles from Michonne.

“I’ll take it,” she says. 

Someone clears their throat, and the two of them look up to see Daryl hovering at the door, looking sheepish. He gives a tiny wave.

“Hey,” he says. “Am I interrupting?”

“Nope, you’re just on time,” Carol says, checking her watch. “Michonne and I are finishing up.”

“Cool,” Daryl says. A beat. “Um, what am I on time for, exactly?”

“She didn’t tell you?” Michonne asks, helping Carol shuffle the papers back together into a neat pile.

“Nah, she just told me I had an appointment with her at the mortuary, and to meet in the intake room,” Daryl says, raising an eyebrow at Carol, who smiles sweetly. 

“She’s gonna make you go over a burial plan,” Michonne explains. “She does it every year around this time. It’s some fucked up kind of coping mechanism.”

“Who said it’s a coping mechanism? Maybe I just like imagining you all dead,” Carol says, sticking the papers into a manila folder labelled “Michonne”. 

“I suppose that’s probably more likely.” Michonne gets to her feet, and puts a hand on Daryl’s shoulder, saying, “Your turn. Have fun!” before squeezing past him out the door. Daryl looks to Carol questioningly, and Carol gestures to the now empty couch across from her. Daryl hesitates a moment, and then takes a seat.

“Burial plan?” he asks.

“Mhm,” Carol says with a smile. She sets Michonne’s file off to the side, and then picks up a clipboard with forms she uses for funeral arrangements. Balancing it on her belly and twirling a pen around in her hand, she looks at Daryl expectantly. “Have you ever thought about what you want to happen to your body after you die?”

Daryl regards her for a long moment, cuticle between his teeth. Finally, he leans back and shrugs.

“Not really. Guess I figured that no matter what Imma be nothin’ but rotten meat in the end, so who cares what sort of packaging I get put in?” 

“Does that mean a traditional funeral doesn’t interest you?” Carol asks, making notes. 

“What, you mean like in a big church or funeral home with everyone gawkin’ at my corpse? No thanks. I don’t like bein’ the center of attention now while I’m alive. Don’t know why it’d be any better when I’m dead.” 

“Do you have any religious beliefs that would influence your burial plans?” She glances up from her clipboard and lets her professional voice slip when she adds, “I’ve never asked you about that.” 

“Dixon’s ain’t never been the godly type,” Daryl says with a self-deprecating smile. “I ain’t sure if they’d even let us in church anymore. God pro’ly handed out signs with our faces on ‘em to keep us out. My granddaddy once showed up to a sermon piss drunk and tried to throw punches with the preacher. Back the first time Merle was tryna get right, he thought he’d try out Jesus for a minute, see if the man upstairs could keep him straight, ‘til he realized he’d have to get up before noon on Sundays. And I never liked the place. My momma would try to get us to go. Always made me take a bath and comb my hair beforehand.” 

“Oh no, not a bath,” Carol says in faux-shock, putting a hand to her heart. Daryl snorts at her.

“I know, right? And she’d stuff me in stiff clothes, and I’d spend the whole damn monrin’ fidgetin’ in the pews. After she passed I don’t think I ever went again.” Daryl twists his mouth. “How about you?” he asks, sounding hesitant, like he’s suddenly afraid he just went on an anti-church tirade to a militant Christian, but Carol shakes her head.

“I used to go,” she says. “Every Sunday. Ed, Sophia, and I would show up to church and pretend like we were the perfect family. And I pretended to believe it, until I couldn’t justify why God would let me sit in His house every week in long sleeves in the Georgia heat to cover my bruises and not do a damn thing to help.”

“Yeah, well,” Daryl says, averting his gaze in favor of examining a hangnail. “You know what they say. Mysterious ways, and all that BS.” 

“Mysterious or not, if God exists, He and I will be having a pretty frank exchange of words. Even if I end up in Hell. I’ll ask the Devil if I can use my one phone call to ask God, ‘Hey, what the fuck was all that for?’” 

Daryl huffs a laugh through his nose and looks up at her again. His eyes fall to her midsection and he draws his brows together. 

“What is it?” she asks.

“Nothin’, just...I never thought about how all that stuff works when you got a kid.” 

“You mean like taking them to church?” 

“Yeah, or even tryna explain God. How the fuck do you explain somethin’ to a kid you ain’t got no real answers about yourself?” 

“I think you wing it,” Carol says with a helpless sort of shrug. “Wing it and hope it won’t screw you down the road.”

“Mm, that sucks. Sure you don’t got a manual in there, too?” He nods at her belly. 

“Pretty sure it’s just a baby, sorry,” Carol says, rubbing her bump and smiling sympathetically. He’s cute when he gets flustered about his son. It’d be much easier for him to have someone there to help figure it all out. And it’s much easier for her to not think about that right now. She grabs the reins on the conversation, and abruptly asks, “What kind of casket would you want?” 

If he’s surprised or off-put by her sudden change of pace he doesn’t show it. He’s probably used to it by now; knows all her weird eccentricities that he probably thinks are cute instead of annoying. The bastard.

“Now don’t you try and sell me one of them ten billion dollar boxes you got. I seen enough caskets over the past seven months to know that some of ‘em are nicer than my actual bed. What’s the point of that? I’m _dead_. I don’t give a damn if I got a pillow, and I sure as hell don’t care if it’s pure satin and the outside is solid gold.” 

“People take that ‘final resting place’ stuff really seriously,” Carol says. Daryl seems doubtful.

“You’d shell out money for one of them things?”

“Oh god no,” she says. “Even with Sophia I didn’t go crazy extravagant. Not that I could have afforded it, mind you, but still. And I hate the idea of ending up in one of them myself. I get nightmares about being stuck in them all the time.”

“You claustrophobic?”

“Mhm. So you can imagine why an eternity in a metal box doesn’t appeal to me.”

“You gonna be cremated, then?” 

“No way. What if someone spills my ashes all over a parking lot?” She grins when Daryl narrows his eyes.

“You drop _one_ urn and it’s all anybody wants to talk about,” he mumbles, not able to keep a straight face when Carol laughs. “For real, though, what do you want done with your body once you’re done with it? No casket, no fire—what’s left? Dump you off on the side of the highway in a black trash bag?”

“That does sound appealing, but pass. I told you before, I just want to decompose in peace.” 

“Yeah, but don’t you gotta do that in a box?”

“Nope.” At Daryl’s bemused frown, she explains, “All I want is to be wrapped in a biodegradable cloth, buried a few feet in the ground, and become a nice bit of compost. No restoration. No embalming. Nothing to make me any different than I am.” 

“So you’re sayin’ I could tell ‘em to leave me to feed the trees and they will?”

“Mhm. It’s the perfect type of burial for you, now that I think about it. You wouldn’t take up space in nature; you’d just become it.” 

Daryl’s eyes light up.

“Shit, you got me all excited to kick the bucket. You’re a damn good undertaker.” 

“Funeral director.”

“Grave digger.”

“Mortician.”

“Well, whatever you are, at least you’re pretty.”

Carol opens her mouth, ready to offer her rebuttal, and then pauses. A blush blooms over her cheeks, like him calling her pretty is so intimate and scandalous, as if he hadn’t been balls’ deep inside her two days ago. 

“Shut up,” she mutters. He shrugs, blushing a little too, but looking proud of himself anyway. She distracts herself by scribbling down “natural burial” in the margin of the sheet on her lap. 

“You do this with all your friends, then?” he asks. Carol doesn’t bother to explain that she doesn’t really have “friends”, so much as people she cares about more than strangers on the street. Okay, maybe Michonne is a friend, but she doesn’t like to think of her that way, because that means she matters, and if she matters then she can hurt Carol, and Carol does not like to give that kind of agency to people.

Instead of saying any of this, she says, “Yes.” 

“What if they already did it?”

“I just make them go over it with me again and make sure nothing’s changed.” When Daryl doesn’t reply, she looks up from the clipboard and sees he doesn’t seem remotely puzzled by this objectively weird habit of hers. She frowns. “Aren’t you gonna ask me why I do it?”

“I wasn’t gonna, no,” Daryl says. “Don’t need to ask, I already know.”

This gives Carol pause. 

“You already know? And what exactly do you know?” 

Daryl chews on his bottom lip as he considers his words. Finally, he says, “Most of the time death is just a job for you. But the anniversary of Sophia’s death is in a couple days. Thinkin’ about that makes death not a job, but somethin’ personal, and if it’s personal, then it ain’t somethin’ you can control. It reminds you that death ain’t just sellin’ some expensive boxes and then doin’ the books; it’s this thing that causes pain, and don’t get it twisted, you got damn high pain tolerance, but that don’t mean you wanna feel it. And you sure as hell don’t wanna think about how the people you care about will eventually die, and how that’ll be painful, too. So you do funeral plans with ‘em, ‘cause in some small way that gives you control over their death. And how can somethin’ you got control over hurt you?” 

Carol stares at Daryl. She doesn’t think _she_ could have even articulated that about herself. The vulnerability she feels when she realizes the extent of the agency he has over her—how easily he could hurt her—makes her queasy. She shakes her head slightly, trying to knock the thought right out of her head, and forces a smile.

“Shut up,” she says, making her tone light. “You don’t know me.” 

Daryl snorts.

“Right,” he says. “Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

*

She puts it off as long as possible. There aren’t any viewings today, and she only had on intake, and that was at ten in the morning. Daryl took a half day at work, and has been at the mortuary since early afternoon. He accepts every excuse Carol tosses out there without question. _Let me file this paperwork real fast and I’ll be good to go! Oh, but actually, this shirt rides up in the back, it’s driving me nuts, so I’m gonna change super quick. You know what I just realized I haven’t checked in a while? My Hotmail account from 2007. I might as well log in before we go anywhere, or else I won’t be able to think about anything else. Now, what was my password…?_

She knows he sees right through her—she knows that he knows that she knows he sees right through her—but he doesn’t say one word about it. He lets her take as much time as she needs, and even tries to help her remember the answer to her Hotmail security question to reset her password. 

When every chore in the building has been done twice, every spam email accumulated since the mid-2000s has been deleted, and she has changed her clothes three times, Carol finally concedes to herself that she’s officially out of ways to stall. 

“Let’s go,” she says with a resigned sigh. Daryl is surprised when she snatches her purse off the front desk, waiting for the catch, but when he sees that she means it this time, the keys to his truck are in his hand so fast you’d think he was Houdini.

They don’t say anything on the drive aside from Carol reminding him what street to turn on. All the real stuff is too heavy right now, and it doesn’t seem like the time for small talk, and so they settle on silence.

This cemetery is much less glamorous than the one Daryl took her to on their date. It’s outside city limits, in this ugly remote area next to some farmland. People definitely don’t come here as tourists, and there sure as hell isn’t a gift shop.

They enter through the opening to the wiry gate that has a sign hanging from it letting them know the place closes at eight. Carol’s sure that local kids still hop the fence and spend the boring weekend nights sitting on tombstones, telling ghost stories over cheap beer anyway, but she supposes they have to at least _try_ and keep them out.

She hasn’t been here in years, but she knows the way by heart. Daryl trails behind her as she walks down the rows of the dead, using tombstones as landmarks. _Past the Clark’s husband and wife plot, then two to the left and one up from Chavez-McAvoy._

And there she is.

Sophia Peletier, beloved daughter, the tragically short gap between her birth and death showcased by the dates inscribed in the best stone a near-empty bank account can buy.

The owners of the cemetery have kept the grass from growing wild, but there aren’t any flowers adorning her grave, like there are on the others around her. A new arrival is buried a couple meters away, and it’s decorated with flowers, cards, and even a balloon, and it makes Sophia seem in death much like she was in life—quiet, understated, and never one to draw attention to herself, and Carol knows she’s to blame. 

She opens her mouth to offer an apology to her late daughter, but nothing comes out. Instead, she stands dumbly, arms limp at her sides, not sure what she’s meant to do or what she’s supposed to feel. How many times has she been on the other side of this, offering up platitudes to people in mourning? Did those words seem as meaningless to them as they do now as she says them to herself?

Daryl, intuitive as ever, doesn’t fill the air with any cliches. He doesn’t ask her if she’s okay. He doesn’t tell her it’s okay to cry. All he does is take the bouquet of red roses he brought, and lays them down, with the utmost care, on Sophia’s bare plot.

While other men were out buying a dozen roses for their valentines, Daryl got them for a dead little girl he’ll never know, and it means more to Carol than a thousand romantic gestures ever could. In that moment, with the first flowers adorning her daughter’s grave since the year they covered her casket with soil, Carol wants to drop all her barriers and give herself to Daryl. It almost seems like it could be as easy as that; just opening up and letting him all the way in. 

But still, that pesky but persistent fear of him lingers, telling her it’s not so easy after all. 

She says, “I used to visit her. I’d come out here, and I’d even try to talk to her, but every time all I could think about was what she looked like at that damn viewing. I couldn’t stop picturing what they did to my baby. I stopped coming as often, and then somewhere along the line I stopped coming at all.” 

“You don’t ever gotta explain yourself to me. I understand,” Daryl says. He puts a hand on her back in comfort—a totally innocuous gesture—but that, of all things, is what makes her break down, because that innocuous gesture makes her realize that for the first time she’s not carrying this loss alone. 

He lets her cry into his shoulder, stroking her hair, and rocking her gently, with an unwavering patience that she’s in awe of.

“You’ll be good at taking care of a crying baby after all the practice I’ve given you,” she jokes, trying for some levity. Daryl doesn’t respond, and when she glances up she finds him looking pensive. “What is it?” she asks.

Daryl chews on his lower lip as he wipes away a stray tear off her cheek with his thumb.

“Would you let me bring him here?” he asks. Carol shakes her head in confusion, prompting him to explain. “Whether you stay in our lives or not, would it be okay if I took him here when he’s older? Even if it’s only once. Just so he understands that he had a sister, and that she was his blood, and that she mattered.” 

“Oh, Daryl,” Carol breathes, her eyelids fluttering shut, sending fresh tears cascading down her face.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. If that’s too much I don’t gotta, it’s just that I—”

“No,” Carol cuts him off. She takes a steadying breath and forces herself to meet his eye. “You can bring him. Of course you can.”

Daryl gives her a small, melancholic smile, and moves his hand from her back to her belly. His smile grows wider when he feels the baby kick his palm.

“He loves it when you’re close,” Carol says quietly. Daryl searches her face, unsure of how to reply. She rests her cheek against him again, and then, without meaning to, she makes an admission.

“I always make myself think of him as only your son,” she whispers. “It’s easier that way, you know? But something I never thought of him as is Sophia’s brother. He is her brother, though, isn’t he? I can’t change that.”

“Yeah, he is.” 

“Christ, Daryl. Severing these ropes gets more and more complicated every fucking day. They’re all tied in such tight knots that I don’t know where to even begin untangling them.”

Daryl doesn’t respond right away. 

“Maybe that’s ‘cause they’re s’posed to stay tied,” he says finally. Carol burrows herself deeper into the fabric of Daryl’s jacket, breathing in the heady smell of a man who spends his spare time out in the nature he hopes his body will one day become a part of. Daryl wraps his arms around her, engulfing her fully, and placing a kiss on the crown of her head. He’s with her, and she has never felt so safe and so terrified at once.

“Maybe,” she whispers. 

It’s still the best she can give, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> four chapters and an epilogue after this one, fam! see you next update
> 
> besos,  
> -diz


	13. XIII. Home is Where Your Cremulator Is

Daryl has been looking at different paint swatches of blue at the hardware store for so long now that he’s afraid his eyeballs might fall out. The internet said that blue was a calming color, and babies should be somewhere calm, right? He can’t possibly stick an infant in Merle’s old room without a major overhaul, what with the off-white walls with the blood red trim. Red promotes aggression, said that one article he clicked on. (Which, in retrospect, maybe hadn’t been a good color to stick Merle with either.)

But God Almighty are there a lot of different shades of blue, all with increasingly stupid names. Does he want Baby Blue Bird? How about Easter Bunny Blue? A Touch of the Blues?

“You know, at this point you might as well set up a crib here, since it doesn’t seem like we’re ever gonna leave,” Rick says, leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed, watching Daryl with a hint of mild amusement. “I think there’s room over in the lawn and gardening section for a changing table.” 

“Listen. You made me sit through that damn softball game Carl broke his nose at. You can handle the hardware store. ‘Sides, you’re the one who insisted on comin’. I told you I could do it myself. You don’t get to bitch.” 

“If I had known I’d be spending the rest of my life here I would have reconsidered.”

“Which of these shades is better do you think?” Daryl holds out three swatches.

“They look exactly the same to me.”

“Don’t be dumb. This one’s got more of a warm tint to it, but this one might be more soothin’. Then again, this one’s brighter. Is bright good or bad for a nursery?”

“You’re overthinking this, you know that, right? The baby isn’t going to be traumatized if his bedroom walls aren’t the exact right shade of blue. In fact, I’m pretty sure babies are color blind.” 

“I just wanna make sure he’s happy.”

“He’s gonna be happy, Daryl, and not because his nursery is Raindrop Dripping Down the Window blue. He’ll be happy because you’ll be his dad.”

“Glad one of us is confident about that,” Daryl mutters, trying to ignore the heat blooming on his cheeks. He stares pointedly at the paint swatches and not at Rick.

“What’s the word on you and Carol? You’re here obsessing over the nursery. I take it that means you aren’t moving into the mortuary any time soon?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Daryl says, attempting to keep the frustration out of his voice. He has no intention of pressuring Carol to rush her decision, but he’d be lying if he said her looming due date wasn’t making him anxious during pretty much every waking moment of every day. The baby will be here in less than two months, and Daryl still isn’t sure if he’s going to be a single parent or not. The best he can do is assume he is, prepare accordingly, and then hope that he’s wrong.

“How’s it been between the two of you?” 

Daryl isn’t sure what to say. In all his near-forty years of life he’s never had a relationship. Not a meaningful one, at least. Not the kind they write sappy songs about, and make insufferable Facebook memes for. Are Carol and the baby the first things he thinks about when he wakes up in the morning? Sure. Does he measure time by dividing it between Time Spent with Carol and Time Spent Without Carol? Yes. Does he sometimes look at her and imagine what it would be like to grow old with her, sitting on a porch swing of a house he built for him, holding hands and reflecting on their life together as the sun sets over the horizon? Yeah, whatever, he’s only human. But as for how it’s been between them? That’s not an easy answer.

It’s not an easy answer because every time he touches her he fears it’s one of the last times. When they kiss he always has to fight the impulse to hold on longer because he’s afraid of letting go. On the nights they spend together he always lets her fall asleep first because he doesn’t want to forget how tranquil and beautiful she looks when she’s unguarded.

Every moment with Carol is both the best and most terrifying one he’s ever had. 

“It’s been fine,” Daryl says, because “fine” is a neutral word that can encompass a broad range of emotions (many of which are the exact opposite of fine), and he doesn’t know how to condense his complicated feelings into a simple, precise sentiment. Ergo, he and Carol are fine.

Rick seems to get the gist of what Daryl _isn’t_ saying, and on a different day his friend might have pressed him for more, but perhaps it’s the obsessive way Daryl is pouring over shades of blue that are indistinguishable from each other, or maybe he simply recognizes that the hardware store isn’t the place for a heart-to-heart, but in lieu of digging deeper, Rick instead peers over Daryl’s shoulder to examine the swatches again.

“I like that one,” he says, pointing at Ocean Water Lapping Up Onto the Shore At High-Tide. 

“Yeah?” Daryl asks, not quite convinced, but Rick nods with conviction. 

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s the perfect color. The kid’s gonna be the happiest guy on the block.” 

*

“Why the fuck,” Carol asks between labored breaths, “do I live at the top of this house?” 

She and Daryl are at the door to her loft after the climb up the steep, narrow stairs that are not conducive to getting a nearly-eight months pregnant woman from place to place. The trek takes considerably more time than it did the first time Daryl accompanied her up here, and now it always leaves her panting, and him feeling guilty for not being the least bit winded. 

“You good?” Daryl asks, placing a hand on the small of her back and waiting patiently for her to compose herself. After a nod and a few deep breaths, she fumbles with her house key, managing to slide it into the lock and turn it open with a click. She lets the two of them inside.

“I’m fine, but unless the house is on fire I’m not going back downstairs again tonight.” She kicks her shoes off onto a mat she has placed on the floor. “Maybe not even then. A fireman can get me down. It’d be front page news. ‘Hot fireman saves hot pregnant woman from a hot situation.’” 

“Quite the headline,” Daryl agrees, following her over to the couch and plopping down next to her. He has her lay her legs across his lap and he starts rubbing her sore, swollen ankles and feet.

“You don’t have to do that,” Carol says, making no efforts to move away.

“Oh yeah? Well in that case I’ll just stop then,” Daryl says, calling her bluff. He taps her legs, pretending he’s gonna push them off, and then feels her press down against his thighs, steeling them in place. Daryl huffs a laugh, resuming the massage, and she shrugs shamelessly.

“Just because you don’t have to doesn’t mean you should stop,” she says. 

“Ah,” Daryl says with a fond smirk. 

The two of them sit in silence for a while, Carol letting her head drop back onto the arm of the couch, her hands absently running up and down the length of her belly. Daryl chews on the inside of his cheek and debates if he wants to say what’s on his mind, or if it would be a catastrophically bad idea to do so.

Of course, they’re not mutually exclusive.

“What is it?” Carol asks, breaking the silence and making the decision for him.

“Nothin’, just…” 

“Just…?”

“I was just thinkin’, if gettin’ up and down to the loft is too hard on you right now, you’re welcome to come stay with me. Doesn’t gotta be forever of nothin’, but the lil’ one’s only gonna get bigger, and my house is shitty, but at least it’s ground floor, and, I dunno, it’s just an idea,” he finishes his ramble lamely, keeping his eyes trained on her legs as he presses the pads of his thumbs between the balls of her feet.

Carol doesn’t say anything at first, and Daryl doesn’t pressure her to, even though sitting in the silence is torturous. He keeps his composure on the outside, while internally chanting, _I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up…_

“That could work,” she says finally, stopping Daryl’s freakout in its tracks. He blinks at her in surprise.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” she says. Her tone is hesitant but he doesn’t seem to have scared her off. “Maybe it’d be good to see how we are living together, and not just spending one or two nights at a time at each other’s place. It’d be good information to have, you know, when I make my decision.”

Oh cool, Daryl thinks, flush with anxiety once again. It’ll be a test. The biggest test of his life, and as a high school dropout he can say with certainty: Tests are not his strong suit.

“Yeah, that’s smart.” He hopes his abject terror isn’t obvious. “Let’s give it a go.”

“Let’s,” Carol agrees.

“When, uh...when would you wanna start?”

“Well, we’re on a bit of a time constraint”—she points needlessly at her belly, as Daryl is well aware of this fact—“And they say there’s no time like the present.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says, ignoring his heart attack.

“And by present, I mean tomorrow,” Carol adds then. “We should get a jump on it, but I meant what I said. I’m not touching those stairs again tonight for anything.” 

*

Having been brought up in various trash heaps that could only, in the loosest sense, be referred to as homes, Daryl has never been one to put much effort into his house beyond what is necessary for basic comfort and livability. His dilemma between shades of blue for the nursery is the most thought he’s ever put into interior design, and now, as he helps Carol carry in a duffel full of toiletries and more than a single night’s worth of clothes into his place, he is kicking himself, because here he is, asking Carol to let him give her the world, when in actuality he can’t even give her matching furniture.

He helps build houses, for fuck’s sake. And she literally lives at the top of a building full of stiffs, and yet her place is livelier than his could ever hope to be. 

Among the bad decisions Daryl has made—and there have been many—this one may be the worst.

“Sorry the place is…” Daryl starts, and then trails off. Uglier than a corpse? Dull as a dead man? Less cozy than a casket? Take your pick.

“Honestly?” Carol says, waddling over to the armchair and lowering herself into it. “You could live at the city dump, but as long as there were no stairs I wouldn’t give a shit.” She reclines the chair and lets out a deep sigh as the pressure is relieved from her legs.

Daryl takes a moment to look at her. He likes her there, sitting in his chair like she belongs there. He imagines what it would be like to come home after a long day of work and be greeted by the sight of Carol smiling at him and then kissing him hello. Then he’d go over and lift his son out of his crib and hold him close. New babies are supposed to smell nice, or so he’s heard.

It wouldn’t need to be his house, either. He has no qualms about living in the loft above the mortuary. If she asked, Daryl could be packed and out by the end of the week. That could be a fun thing to tell people when they asked him where he lived. _Above a bunch of stiffs, how about you?_ He imagines carrying the baby down to Carol’s office and going in and gently telling her to put the work away for the night to come have supper with him, promising her it’ll all still be there tomorrow. They’d eat together as a small but happy family, and then curl up in bed once the baby was asleep, and neither of them would have to worry about the looming potential of a broken heart.

“I think you might have a draft coming in from your window,” Carol says then, and Daryl snaps right back into reality.

"Yeah, I been meanin' to fix that," he says, not mentioning that the reason he hasn't is because he's spent the past several years putting the absolute bare minimum into this house, not out of laziness, but apathy. Who has he had to impress? Merle? The guy with the mysterious scratching noises in his apartment walls? Nah. The truth of the matter is that, up until she entered his life, Daryl has been almost entirely, not to mention pathetically, alone. "I can get it taken care of tomorrow."

"Don't go out of your way on my account," Carol says. She seems embarrassed, like mentioning something out of place in this house is an indiscretion; like she's a guest and not a resident.

"Want you to be comfortable," Daryl says firmly, in a tone he hopes conveys how much he wants her to feel at home, no matter how contradictory that is to his own feelings about the place. "Can't have you gettin' cold."

He’s not sure what she sees in his face, but she must see something, because instead of protesting further, she holds out her hand. Daryl hesitates only a moment before going to her, slipping his fingers in between hers, and when she squeezes them tight he feels the same sensation constricting his heart. 

“Relax,” she says then, gentle and kind, and Daryl lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

“I dunno what I’m doin’ here,” he admits, surprised by his own honesty. “Feel like I’m one second away from blowin’ it, you know?” 

“Whether or not you and I have a future is not contingent on a drafty window, Daryl.”

It’s not, he knows logically, but if their future isn’t dependent on drafty windows and ugly carpets, then that means it’s dependent on big things, like whether or not she can cope with her trauma, and whether they find they still have chemistry after living in close quarters—essentially a whole bunch of shit that’s out of his control, and as much as he gets on Carol about being a control freak, the truth of the matter is he isn’t much better. 

What a fucked up pair they make. 

What a fucked up pair he hopes to be forever. 

“You hungry?” he asks, changing the subject because he’s starting to be able to taste the anxiety as it crawls up his throat.

“Literally always,” Carol says. She flashes him a smile sunshine would be envious of, and he holds her hand tighter, as though that alone will keep her here.

“Want me to order a pizza?” 

“God yes.”

“Whaddya want on it?”

“Pepperoni and pineapple.”

Daryl grimaces.

“Please tell me that’s a pregnancy craving and you’re not actually a ‘pineapple on pizza’ person.”

“Oh no,” Carol says in faux-concern. “Is that the deal breaker?”

“Yeah, that’s the dealbreaker,” Daryl says, losing the fight with a burgeoning grin.

“Can I at least eat before you kick me to the curb?”

“I s’pose, but after that you best grab your bags, ma’am. I don’t want your kind here.” He kisses her knuckles then, and adds, “Just kiddin’,” under his breath, because it’s such a lie that he can’t even joke about it. If it’ll make her stay he’ll eat pineapple on pizza every day for the rest of his life.

“Too easy,” Carol says. “You’re such a sucker for a pretty face.”

Daryl snorts.

“You don’t know the half of it,” he says.

*

The ease at which Carol fits into Daryl’s day-to-day life is astonishing. She’s slid in like the exact right Tetris block, and if Daryl didn’t know better he’d say she’s been here forever; say that she’s always been lurking, a companion he didn’t realize he had because her presence couldn’t be less of an imposition if she tried.

He’s afraid to ask her if she feels the same.

From observation it certainly would seem so. She’s made herself right at home, leaving her touch all around the house that before her influence had no personality at all. Daryl finds himself getting up in his feelings over the smallest things, such as how she drapes her towel out along the shower curtain rod instead of hanging it on the hook, because she says it makes it dry faster, or the way she always keeps a glass of water on the bedside table even though she never touches it past nine PM, because she’s peeing enough as it is. Does being in a relationship mean being fondly annoyed at someone because they always stop the microwave one second before it goes off and then forgets to reset it? Is it being excited to come home from work to watch garbage on TV that has never interested you before, except now it does because there’s someone to do it with you? 

If so, then Daryl’s all for it, from the way she hogs the covers, to the way she manages to make instant coffee taste homebrewed. 

It’s Thursday in the late afternoon when Daryl hears the front door open and shut, and a dumbass fluttering fills his stomach because he’s a twelve year old kid with a crush inside a grown man’s body. He doesn’t pop up and rush into the other room to greet her like an untrained puppy dog, even though he wants to, but when she calls his name, he calls back, “In here!” and listens with anticipation as her footsteps trail into the room he’s trying to shape into some semblance of a nursery, which, by the way, is proving to be a pain in the ass. 

“Seems like you got quite the project going on here,” Carol says when she finds him. Daryl can’t help but flash a big, stupid grin at the sight of her, all swollen and exhausted. “How’s it going?” Carol nods at the mess Daryl’s made on the floor, and he shrugs. 

“Like hell,” he says good-naturedly. “They only packed instructions in what I think might be Chinese.” On his lap he smoothes out a thin, flimsy packet that has diagrams with captions written in characters he can’t even pretend to understand. 

“How hard could it be? You do construction—a crib shouldn’t be that big of a challenge, right?” 

“See, that’s what I thought,” Daryl says. “But for some reason they thought they had to break it up into six hundred pieces and make ‘em all fit together with screws all a few millimeters different in size.” To demonstrate, he lifts up what is either part of a crib leg, part of a bar, or a miscellaneous piece of wood they threw in for kicks, that he has attempted to attach to a rogue metal contraption that must serve a purpose to the product at large, although he couldn’t tell you what that purpose is. At the simple movement, the mystery metal piece falls with a thunk onto the ground, the screw it was precariously attached to hanging limply on the piece of wood. Carol covers her mouth to muffle a laugh.

“Slow going, then?” she asks once she’s recovered. Daryl snorts.

“You could say that. I’m startin’ to think I might just put a pillow and blanket in a crate and call it good. He’ll be small. He won’t know the difference, right?” 

“Surely not. And then you can pick him up and carry him around easier.”

“Exactly. These cribs are just another way for boss man to make a buck.” He smirks when Carol lets out an unrestrained laugh this time, and then leans back on his hands with a sigh. “I wanna get this dumb thing up and functional by the weekend, ‘cause that’s when I was gonna do the walls, and I wanna see what it looks like together ‘fore I go smearing paint all over.” 

“You’re worried the crib won’t match the walls?” Carol asks, crossing her arms in front of her and looking at him with a mix of confusion and amusement.

“Well, see, the crib’s got this dark wood color, but the paint I picked out is on the lighter side—I went back and forth on it, but Rick eventually told me that if I didn’t choose somethin’ he would call his team and tell ‘em he was bein’ held hostage and have ‘em swarm the joint. I think it’ll be fine, but I don’t want him havin’ to sleep somewhere butt ugly. Shit, and I gotta pick up this changing table tomorrow I got from a Craigslist ad. I hope it’s the same as in the picture, ‘cause otherwise it’ll clash somethin’ awful.” Daryl realizes mid-ramble that Carol’s staring at him with a poorly-suppressed grin. “What?” he asks with a frown.

“You’re nesting,” she says. Daryl raises an eyebrow.

“Come again?” 

“It’s a thing women go through in the last few weeks of their pregnancy, where they get obsessed with making sure everything is clean and organized—you know, all ready for the baby.” 

“You callin’ me a pregnant woman?” 

“If the shoe fits,” Carol says with a shrug. Daryl blows a raspberry at her.

“I ain’t nestin’. It’s just that if I don’t spruce up the place the kid is gonna get here and the first thing he’ll learn to do is how to dial child protective services.” 

Laughing, Carol walks over and lowers herself to the ground beside Daryl, who watches her warily.

“You sure you’re gonna be able to get back up again?” he asks, only half joking.

“No, but what’s life without a little risk?” she says in a strained voice, the small action knocking the wind out of her crowded chest. She places a hand on Daryl’s chin and he automatically meets her halfway, giving her a chaste but long kiss on the lips. He tries not to harp on how much he’d miss welcome home kisses if she decides she’s going to leave him; how much he’d miss any of her kisses at all, except maybe goodbye ones.

He tries. He also fails.

“How was work?” Daryl asks once he’s pulled away. He lets her rest her head on his shoulder while he takes one of her hands in his and strokes her knuckles with his thumb.

“The body bag of the badly decomposed corpse Glenn was taking out of the van this morning wasn’t sealed all the way, and quite a lot of fluids poured out into the parking lot, so dealing with that took most of the day.” 

“Fluids?” Daryl asks with a grimace.

“Yes. Quite a lot of them.”

“That parking lot has seen some shit,” Daryl says, trying not to think about the various fluids contained inside the human body. He fails at this as well. Carol hums in agreement, but doesn’t make a quipi back. Daryl strains his neck to see her face and catches her staring at the wall across from them with mixed emotion.

“What’s up?” he asks, jostling her gently. She snaps out of it and turns her attention back on him, readjusting herself so that most of her body is supported by his.

“We should talk logistics,” she says slowly. “But I don’t know how.”

“Whaddya mean?” 

“I mean that there’s gonna be a baby here soon—real soon—whether I’m ready to accept that or not, and we should talk about where everyone is gonna be living if…”

“If you stay,” Daryl finishes for her softly. She nods against him, and Daryl can sense her tension and guilt.

“I’m taking us down to the wire,” she says. “I know I am, and it’s probably driving you insane, and I’m sorry. Truly. It’s just that whenever I feel like I’ve made a decision all the bad thoughts come rushing in.” She nuzzles her cheek against his collarbone and adds quietly, “I know what I _want_ to want.”

“And what do you want to want?” Daryl asks. He could guess the answer, but he’s not making any assumptions when it comes to her. 

But then she says, “You.” And then, “Him. I want to want the both of you without all the fear attached, and it seems so stupid to not just take that plunge, but then, what if I give birth and...just the _thought_ of him scares me right now, Daryl. What if I see him and it gets worse, not better? I couldn’t stay then. How would it be fair to him to have a mother who’s so obsessed with his mortality that she can’t focus on his life? No, I need to be sure I can get myself right before I try to be anyone’s mother, for his sake as much as mine.” 

“I get it,” Daryl says, because he does. Maybe he doesn’t think that she needs to eradicate her anxieties so much as control them, but he understands, the way only a fellow trauma survivor could, how paralyzing fear can be.

“I know you do, but that doesn’t change the fact that by this time next month this child may very well be out and about in the world, meanwhile the two of us have two different addresses and a crib that’s in a million pieces on the floor.”

All excellent points, Daryl agrees, surveying the disaster of crib parts in a haphazard heap in the middle of the room.

“I been thinkin’ about that, actually, and I might have a solution,” he says. “How would you feel if I finish up the nursery here, and then we’ll plan on this bein’ the first place he comes home to. I doubt you’d be feelin’ up to goin’ up and down them stairs to your loft much more than you do now when you’re postpartum with an infant in tow. You own the building. It ain’t goin’ nowhere. Then, of course, if you decide you don’t want...if you decide that you _can’t_ stay, you don’t gotta go back home and look at a bunch’a baby stuff with no baby to use it.” 

Carol’s quiet for a minute, and Daryl worries he’s been too presumptuous, but then she exhales in a way that sounds tremendously relieved.

“Yeah,” she says, sounding lighter, as if the pressure on her diaphragm wasn’t the only thing giving her shortness of breath. “I like that plan.”

“And we wouldn’t have to stay here forever,” Daryl assures her. “If we end up together, I mean. I don’t have any particular fondness for this place or nothin’. It’s four walls and a roof; a place to store my shit. But the mortuary’s important to you, and that makes it important to me, and I wouldn’t mind plantain’ roots there.”

“You’d be okay living in a building full of dead people?” Carol asks with a smile in her voice.

“Nah, it’d be neat. And if I was ever lonely when you weren’t around I could just talk to the ghosts.”

“Shut up, it’s not haunted,” Carol says, thwaping him on the forearm and making him laugh.

“I’d be just fine with it,” he says, more seriously this time, and plants a kiss on her temple.

“You know what they say—home is where your cremulator is.” 

Daryl huffs a breath through his nostrils and places a hand on her belly. The baby kicks his palm and Daryl’s heart swells.

“Nah. Home is where y’all are, sweetheart,” he tells her, and then angles her around in his arms so that he can swoop in and capture her lips with his, cutting off any protest she may have at the gate. 

He gives her an orgasm on the nursery room floor, and when she reminds him that eating her out won’t make the crib get put together any faster, he all but lifts her bodily to her feet, and leads her to the bedroom.

After all, the crib with the Chinese instructions certainly isn’t going anywhere, but his tomorrow isn’t promised. That’s what fucking the undertaker has taught him so far, and he has every intention of continuing his lessons until there are no more left to attend.

*

Here’s the thing about near-death experiences: You think of them as things like plane crashes, or fires, or gunshot wounds, but the truth is that there are plenty of near-deaths, or even just deaths, that are incredibly mundane; the type of story you’d be wont to embellish to make it seem a little cooler, and not just “There was a spider in my sun visor and I veered into a tree.” 

Near-death experiences happen any day of the week. Daryl’s happens on a Friday, but it could have easily been a Monday, or perhaps even a Wednesday. Tuesday or Thursday were viable candidates too. There is nothing special about this particular Friday, except for two things: A wooden beam near the roof of a house that no one knows has been rotted through, and where Daryl takes his next step.

There’s the old adage that says that when you’re about to die your life flashes before your eyes, which is true, but only in a sense. 

The first thought Daryl has when his foot goes clear through what he thought was solid wood is, “Fuck, we’re gonna have to overhaul the foundation.” This thought is quickly pushed to the side by the following one—“Oh shit!”—which comes as his balance is lost and he realizes he has nothing to grab onto. He topples backwards, vaguely aware of his coworkers gasping and yelling nothing that helps curb the pull of gravity. 

That’s when his life flashes before his eyes. In the distance between the roof of the house and the very hard ground, Daryl sees the face of Carol. He hears the way she laughs at him when he says something stupid. He watches her eyes gleam as she tells him a particularly harrowing story about spilled body fluids. He sees her cradle her pregnant belly, holding his son, whom he will never have a chance to meet, and there’s irony there somewhere, although he doesn’t have the time to suss it out.

Carol and their son—they _are_ his life, and he thinks idly about how it’s unfortunate to come to this realization only now that he’s about to die. 

And that’s when the impact comes, and he waits for darkness to take him as he collides with the lawn of the uppity suburban couple whose house he just fucking let himself die for. 

Except darkness doesn’t come. Pain does, though. Pain is quite happy to keep Daryl company. He probably should feel fortunate, since pain means he’s definitely still alive, but he’s too busy hurting to be that pragmatic about it. He does a quick rundown of The Essentials:

  * When he blinks his eyelids open he sees the blue sky, only a shade or two off from the nursery paint, above him, meaning he still has sight.
  * He runs his tongue along his teeth and finds nothing out of place.
  * His heart is definitely pounding. He can feel his pulse thrumming with all the adrenaline and endorphins.
  * He can still pull air into his lungs, and then blow it right back out.
  * Actually, truth be told, there’s only one part of his body that is causing most of the trouble, and that’s—



“Dixon, you alright, man? That was a hell of a fall.” 

Daryl squints up at his coworker Axel, who’s hovering over him with his stupid moustache dotted in droplets of sweat from his moist upper lip. Daryl hopes this isn’t what his last sight is going to be, but he’s reasonably sure he’s not dying anymore. Near-death experience gets officially downgraded to severe-but-not-lethal injury.

“Imma need you to get me to a hospital,” Daryl manages to say, his voice tight as he tries to center himself. Aren’t people supposed to go into shock when they get hurt? Aren’t you not supposed to feel it all right away? 

“You hurt? What’s wrong? There ain’t any blood.”

Well, that’s good news at least.

“Well, Axel,” Daryl says, clenching his eyes tight at a sharp spike of pain. “I think I broke my ass.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boy. i've been having myself a bit of A Time, especially this past week. forgive me. life is heavy, but this fic continues to bring me levity, however dark humored it may be. as always, thanks for your continued patience, and plz plz plz take care of yourselves. the world is both figuratively and literally on fire, and we all need to remember to breathe. note to self.
> 
> anyway! three chapters and a short epilogue left! bye!
> 
> xoxo,  
> -diz


	14. XIV: Daryl's Broken Ass

The moment Carol lays eyes on Michonne her hackles are raised. Her friend is wearing this facial expression that spells nothing but trouble. Working directly with grieving people has made Carol an expert in reading body language. You can’t always trust the words of a person in mourning. It’s not that they lie or anything. It’s just that grief snatches rationality from you, and half the time  _ they _ don’t even know what they’re saying, so Carol has learned the nuances of non-verbal communication, because it tells more truth than tongues. 

Michonne’s face says that she has news Carol isn’t gonna want to hear. It says that she’s already putting together a speech to keep Carol calm. It says something is Wrong with a capital W, and Carol needs to know what it is immediately, and is also terrified of what it could be.

“Hey,” Michonne says. She stands beside Carol’s desk with her hands in her pockets. 

“What happened?” Carrol asks without preamble, and Michonne sighs.

“Before you freak out,” Michonne says, starting in the worst possible way. “I need you to know that everything is under control and will be completely fine, okay?” 

“What. Happened?” Carol asks again. She realizes that her fingers are still poised above her keyboard where she stopped in her tracks mid-email.

“There’s been an accident,” Michonne says, sending an ice cold chill down Carol’s spine. “A  _ minor _ accident.”

But all Carol hears is “there’s been an accident,” only she doesn’t hear it in Michonne’s voice. She hears it in the cool, practiced indifference of the man on the other end of the phone, telling her about her SUV that did a 360 degree flip, crushing her daughter’s frail, petite body in the process, sucking the life right out of that little girl forever.

“Who?” Carol asks, but even as she says it she knows the answer. Who else would put that expression on Michonne’s face? That anxious determination, like she’s trying to prevent an explosion, and Carol’s the bomb she needs to defuse.

“I just got off the phone with Rick. He said he would have called you directly but he doesn’t have your number. Apparently, Daryl had a fall at work a couple hours ago.”

“A fall from where?” Carol asks, hoping the answer isn’t “off the roof of a house”.

“Off the roof of a house,” Michonne says, and Carol wants to vomit.

“How badly is he hurt?” Carol has seen several corpses of people who had taken a good tumble before coming to her. There was one whose head landed on a fire hydrant and his skull looked like a deflated basketball. Then there was that teen boy who tried to look cool by jumping straight like a jackhammer into a lake that was much shallower than he thought. The way both his tibias broke right through his skin definitely got his friends’ attention (although it was the neck break that had killed him). 

“Rick said that they’re keeping him overnight for observation to make sure there’s nothing wrong with his spine, but the only real injury he has is a badly bruised tailbone. That’s all, Carol, I told you, he’s fine.” 

Carol disagrees. “Fine” would be if he hadn’t fallen in the first place. “Fine” would be if her heart wasn’t trying to bust out of her throat, the rapid beating getting the baby all worked up and making him kick the walls of her womb, telling her to calm the fuck down.

“Fine” would be never having to hear the words “there’s been an accident” in any context ever again, not even if it’s referring to someone shitting themselves, or a bloated body leaking fluids all over the parking lot, because apparently she has a fucking pavlonian response to those four words, and she has no idea how long it’s gonna take to rein herself back in.

“I need to see him,” she decides, standing abruptly, her wheelie chair rolling into the wall behind her. 

“I’m sure you can, but I’m telling you there’s not going to be much to see. It’ll just be Daryl like normal, except he’ll be in a hospital gown with a sore butt.” 

Carol will be the judge of that. She says, “Give me Rick’s number, and tell Tara I need her to do my intake for me at three.” 

“Are we letting her do intakes again? Even after the Brown incident?” 

“In her defense, Mrs. Brown’s mother  _ did _ look a lot like Steve Buscemi. She was just saying what we were all thinking,” Carol says, trying to see over her belly to find the shoes she’d kicked off earlier. With a short struggle she gathers them, slips them on, and then shoulders her purse. “She’ll be fine.”

“You’re the boss,” Michonne says. She pulls a yellow sticky note off a stack on Carol’s desk and snags a pen to jot down Rick’s phone number. Carol takes it with a mumbled thanks, and heads out the door without a goodbye. By the time she gets to the parking lot she already has Rick on the line and is demanding a room number as she presses the button on her keychain, unlocking her car with a click.

*

Sense memory is a strange thing. On the few occasions Carol has had cause to go to the hospital, usually to pick up a dead body when Glenn wasn’t available, her very first thought every time has been of her great-grandmother Midge.

Midge was an old fuck when Carol was born, so by the time Carol was at an age where she could actually remember their visits, Midge looked like she just crawled out of a sarcophagus from 1300 BCE. She was nothing but bone, her skin thin and veiny, pulled taut in some places and hanging loose in others, as if none of it fit just right, and she always breathed through her mouth. She wore a cannula in her nose that was giving her a constant flow of oxygen, but Carol swears she only saw Midge breathe through her mouth. Each moist, hot breath Midge dragged into her lungs and blew out sounded like a car engine refusing to turn over, and her jaw always hung open wide, and it made any room she was in feel humid just by how wet her mouth was.

Whenever Carol would visit, Midge would use her walker and shuffle in non-slip socks into the kitchen, and would pile a stack of stale crackers onto a floral plate that she’d hand to Carol with a shaking hand. Carol would eat the crackers out of obligation, but every bite tasted like how the house smelled—an unpleasant mix of latex, old linen, and grandma spit.

It’s the smell, Carol figures, that turns hospitals into a time machine, transporting her back to one of Midge’s rickety dining room chairs where she would swing her legs and nibble on gross crackers, counting the seconds until her mother said they could go home.

Hospitals smell disgusting, and that’s saying something coming from someone who works with dead bodies for a living, but truth be told, Carol prefers the stench of the dead over the stench of the sick. Decay is organic; natural. Hospitals smell like human intervention, like chemicals and powdered gloves, and it gives her the same feeling in her gut that she gets when she sees an overdone embalming job. People aren’t meant to be pumped full of preservatives, and they’re not meant to be sick, but a lot of the time they end up being both, eventually.

Carol’s second thought is a lot less abstract. She doesn’t have to trace any odors back through a timeline to be reminded of the day she went into a hospital and saw her husband hooked up to a million machines that were keeping up all his life functions for him. The doctor had told her Ed was brain dead, and she said, “I know, but what’s his medical condition?” 

Among all the bodies that have passed through Carol’s life there has only been one she watched die. 

The doctor had pulled the plug and Carol pulled up a chair and waited. She had crossed her arms and stared, expressionless, until the very last blip in the monitors disappeared and all the lines went flat. She then rose from her seat, exited the room, and never looked at Ed’s face in the flesh again.

But she’s not at the hospital today to eat stale crackers or to watch someone die.

Carol follows a maze of signs to the left wing of the building and takes an elevator to the fourth floor. The elevator is wide—wide enough to carry a wheelchair bound patient, or a bed on wheels getting rushed to the operating room—and Carol presses herself in the corner and wonders how many of the people who have used this elevator are dead now. Maybe she’s met some of them. Maybe she’s set some of them on fire. It’s not out of the realm of possibility. 

By the time she finds Daryl’s room her feet are aching from walking around a million different corridors, and her anxiety is almost quashed by her joy at being able to sit down soon. But then she pushes aside the curtain that’s acting as a makeshift door and gets worked up all over again when she peeks inside.

Objectively, the sight is banal. Daryl is lying on his belly the wrong way on a hospital bed, his feet where his head should be and vice versa. His hospital gown is one Janet Jackson Super Bowl incident away from exposing his backside, and he’s got on ugly, non-slip socks like great-grandma Midge used to wear, but there are no machines beeping. There are no IVs dripping, nor monitors monitoring. There’s only Daryl watching the evening news with a bored expression, a tray of ambiguous meat covered in liquidy, brown gravy with a side of jello on his bedside table, and a grape juice box in his hand. He slurps the bottom dregs of juice through a straw, and then glances over at the door. When he sees Carol standing there his face immediately brightens, a big, dopey grin blooming.

“Hey, baby momma,” he says. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

It takes approximately five seconds for Carol to ascertain that Daryl is currently stoned off his entire ass. 

“Hello,” Carol says, smirking a little in spite of herself. As objectively banal as the scene may be, Carol is finding it difficult to not conflate  _ Daryl is in a hospital room  _ with  _ everyone you care about is going to die _ . “How are you feeling?” 

Daryl pouts out his lower lip and says solemnly, “I broke my ass.” 

“I heard,” Carol says. She goes over to pull up a chair, but Daryl catches her wrist as she passes by. She glances down and finds him watching her with an expectant desire, but even if she wasn’t currently distracted by Daryl’s imminent mortality she can’t bend down far enough to reach his lips anyway, so instead she lifts his hand and plants a soft kiss to his knuckles. This seems to placate him, because he lets her go and then makes a futile attempt to fluff his flat pillow. He lays his head down and shifts on his side so he can watch her with giant hearts in his eyes.

“You are real damn pretty, you know that?” he says with a lazy smile. Carol, blushing as she lowers her disproportionate body into an uncomfortable, plastic chair, scoffs.

“Shut up,” she says. “Don’t hit on me. Your ass is broken, remember? Stop trying to get yourself laid.”

“Mm, it’s only a lil’ broken, though. Mostly just bruised. And it don’t hurt at all no more.”

“I bet. How many pain meds do they have you on?” Carol raises an eyebrow at him, and he hems and haws.

“Enough,” he says cryptically. “Not so many that I can’t notice how fuckin’ sexy you are. You got a whole-ass baby inside you, how do you manage to still look so good?” 

Carol feels like she is one extra notch in her belt away from having her own gravitational pull, but it’s nice that high-Daryl doesn’t seem to mind that she’s a planet.

“Do opiates always make you such a flirt?” Carol asks. Her tone is light, but she pushes her hair behind her ear and averts her gaze bashfully.

“Dunno. Only other time I took ‘em was when I got my appendix out as a teen, and I only had ‘em for a day or two ‘fore my daddy took the rest for hisself.” 

“You didn’t lie when you said he was an asshole.”

“Yeah, Tara was right, his name was perfect. Dick Dixon. Piece o’ shit. He did do one good thing for me, though.”

“What’s that?” 

“He kicked the bucket and led me to you.” Daryl honest-to-god winks at her, and Carol has to laugh at how talking about his dad’s death is Daryl’s version of romance. 

“Rick and Michonne said you’ll be here overnight,” Carol says, changing the subject. If Daryl notices, he’s too high to care.

“Stupid,” he mutters. “Told the docs to lemme go home so I can put ice on my ass and my wounded ego in peace, but they wanna be extra sure I didn’t fuck up anythin’ else since I landed on my back. Frankly I think they’re holdin’ me hostage to make another grand or two off of me, but this’ll get covered under worker’s comp, so whatever.” 

“I’d rather they be sure you’re okay before sending you home, anyway,” Carol says. Her voice must betray her, because Daryl knits his brows at her and frowns.

“Hey,” he says gently. “I’m good. You know that, right?”

“I know that,” Carol says, but even she can hear how unconvincing she sounds. 

“Don’t get up in your head about this, baby. Sittin’ down is gonna be a literal pain in the ass for a minute, but I ain’t that worse for wear. Hell, I even got extra paid time off while I heal. It’s like a mini-vacation ‘fore the lil’ dude gets here, ‘cept instead of sangria on the beach it’ll be ibuprofen on a coccyx pillow in front of the TV.” 

Carol huffs a small laugh.

“I know you’re gonna be fine. It’s just...Michonne came and told me there was an accident, and it was as if it was only yesterday I got the phone call saying my daughter was dead. Just my usual stupid bullshit.”

“Didn’t mean to put you through that,” Daryl says seriously. “There  _ was  _ an accident, but it was a dumb one that’ll be easily forgotten in a month or two. Shit happens, babe, but I promise it ain’t always gonna be the type of shit that breaks your heart.”

The corners of Carol’s eyes start prickling. To hide it she snorts and says, “If you keep taking those pills you could get yourself a job writing Hallmark cards. You’d probably have to tone down the profanity, though.” 

“Then what’s the point?” Daryl asks with a smile. He yawns then, digging his head down deeper into the flat pillow, and Carol realizes how tired he looks after a full day of falling off houses and having strangers take x-rays of his ass.

“I’m gonna let you get some sleep,” she says, pushing herself up with a muted grunt.

“Don’t gotta go,” Daryl says, but even as he does his voice grows groggy. Carol waddles over to the bed and pets his hair. He gives a pleased hum and angles his head to plant a quick kiss on her wrist.

“You’re sweet,” Carol says. “Get some rest and you’ll be out of here before you know it. Call or text me if you need anything.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Daryl says. He closes his eyes and says, “Drive safe. Love you.” 

Carol freezes in place. She stares at Daryl for a long, tense moment, but he doesn’t appear to think anything’s amiss. In fact, he seems cozy as ever, drugged up and wearing stupid socks. 

Carol mumbles a pathetic “see you tomorrow,” and hastily shows herself the door. The whole walk back to her car she feels off-center, and she’s pretty damn sure that not all of it has to do with her giant belly.

*

Carol is at work to oversee a Saturday morning funeral service she technically doesn’t need to be at, because whenever her emotions get the better of her she handles them the way anyone would, which is by surrounding herself with death. 

Okay, maybe not anyone, but she can’t be the  _ only _ one. Like, statistically there’s gotta be another out there. Right?

“Why are you here?” Michonne asks the second Carol arrives at  _ Memento Mori _ .

“I came to give you a hand with the service,” Carol says, and Michonne narrows her eyes.

“It’s my turn to work a weekend service, and when in my whole career have I ever needed a hand with one, not including that guy that was almost certainly part of the Mafia, but having the both of us there to keep things peaceful was simply common sense. I still could have handled it alone.”

“It has nothing to do with your competency, Michonne. You and Tara have been picking up a lot of my slack lately, and I wanted to do my part. In fact, why don’t you take the rest of the day off? This is an easy funeral, I’ll do it.”

Michonne narrows her eyes in suspicion. 

“I don’t buy it,” she says. “Why do you actually want to be here?” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Whenever you’re dealing with something you’d rather not think about you throw yourself into work-mode. So what’s bothering you? Is it Daryl?” 

“Why would Daryl be bothering me?” Carol asks, while silently cursing Michonne’s penchant for calling her out on her bullshit.

“If I had to guess?” Michonne asks, putting a finger to her lip. “Hm, maybe because he nearly died yesterday, and now you’re thinking about how love always ends in pain, yada yada.” 

“Who said anything about love?” Carol snaps. “Why would you assume I’m in love with Daryl?” 

Michonne blinks at Carol, her eyebrows up to her hairline.

“I didn’t assume that, but alright, let’s explore this topic. Are you in love with Daryl?”

“Oh for Christ’s sake. I don’t have time for this. Are you going home or not? Because if not then help me finish setting up. The family will be arriving soon.” Carol makes to move towards the viewing room, but Michonne steps in front of her.

“That was very much  _ not _ an answer,” she says.

“That’s because this is neither the time nor the place. Not to mention that I am your  _ boss _ , and if we’re to maintain a proper employer/employee relationship then we need to stop discussing my personal life on the job. How I feel about Daryl is none of your concern, and the same goes for how he feels about me. And we can’t be certain about what he feels for me anyway, because people sometimes have weird reactions to medication. I mean, I once took a 50mg codeine pill after getting my wisdom teeth removed and hallucinated Chris Hemsworth telling me not to suck dick because I might get dry sockets. Sometimes people are not in their right mind, and they think stupid things, or maybe say stuff they don’t mean, and it’s  _ okay _ , and not anything to get fucking worked up about, so why don’t you buy me dinner first if you’re gonna ride my ass so goddamn hard. Or better yet, stop worrying about my relationship with Daryl, because everything is  _ fine _ .  _ Fuck _ .” 

Carol stops talking, out of breath from saying so much so fast with her limited lung capacity. The baby sucker punches her in the rib. Michonne stares at her. Carol smoothes out her maternity blouse and stands as straight as she’s able to. 

“I’m gonna...go set up the flower arrangements,” Michonne says finally, pointing her thumb at a crate by the front desk full of lily bouquets that got delivered the day before. Carol clears her throat.

“That’s a good idea,” she says.

“Right.”

“Right.” 

“Just so we’re clear, though, you’re  _ sure _ there’s nothing bothering you?” 

_ “Go set up the damn flowers, Michonne.” _

“Got it,” Michonnne mutters, getting to work. 

Carol stalks off into the viewing room and goes to check out the elderly man in the casket. She surveys his body, making sure everything’s in place, before dropping her professional facade and propping her elbows up on the edge of the casket, holding her chin in her hands.

“Wanna trade places for the day?” she asks the man. “You can carry around a baby you have about approximately no time left to decide on whether or not you want to keep, all while his father is busy falling in love with you, and I can lie in this seven thousand dollar box and not have to deal with anything at all.”

The man says nothing, because he is dead. 

Carol blows out a big breath, shaking her head. 

“You’re a shit conversationalist, you know that?” 

The man continues to be dead, and Carol pushes herself upright and goes to get the programs for the service from her office.

*

When it comes to sex there are those one could label as “screamers”, wherein the sensations of sexual gratification are so extreme they cause a person to express their feelings loudly and without inhibition. In the death industry there is a similar concept, wherein a person gets so overloaded with emotion that they become what Carol and her crew privately refer to as “wailers”.

Mrs. Barnett is a wailer. 

No one ever acknowledges that someone is a wailer. That would be a social faux pas. Instead, they do what the funeral attendees are doing now, and steel their gazes on the person delivering the eulogy, even though no one can hear him over the wailing. The person seated beside Mrs. Barnett rubs her back, and the one behind her offers up a tissue, because that’s what you do if you’re seated next to a wailer—you take care of them, you console them, but you never mention the fact that they’re wailing so loud that it’s reverberating off the walls.

It’s impossible to predict who is going to end up being a wailer. Carol has had intakes with people who sobbed through the entire thing, only to quietly weep during the service. Mrs. Barnett had been solemn, but put together. She’d informed Carol that she had been with her husband for almost sixty years and knew his tastes well enough to know that he would find silver too clinical, white too gaudy, and would do just fine in a simple chestnut colored casket, and no the cost is no issue, tell me where to sign, thank you very much. She had appeared to be a woman who had come to terms with the concept of death, and was prepared to take on grief with a stoic dignity.

And yet.

“Yikes,” Michonne mutters in Carol’s ear. The two of them are supervising from the door, and Carol has been idly wondering for the past fifteen minutes if it would be rude for her to sit down to take the weight off her feet.

“Yeah,” she agrees, cringing when Mrs. Barnett lets out a particularly bracing wail from deep in her chest. “Poor thing.” 

“How long did you say they were married?” 

“It would have been their sixtieth in October.”

“Damn. That’s gotta hurt.” 

“Mhm.”

Carol watches Mrs. Barnett stand up, her body hunched with osteoporosis and joints wobbling with age. She takes tiny steps to the casket while the man giving the eulogy looks between her and the crowd, trying to figure out if he’s supposed to keep talking or not. Mrs. Barnett leans over the casket and uses a trembling hand to pet his hair.

“God, I hope Tara got those hair plugs in right,” Michonne whispers with a grimace. 

No hairs appear to come loose from Mr. Barnett’s cold scalp as his widowed, wailing wife continues to pet him genty. At this point, two young women pop up and go to Mrs. Barnett, each of them taking an elbow, speaking soft words that do nothing to comfort her, because how could they? Her husband of nearly sixty years is dead. She spent the past six decades of her life with this one man, and now is expected to what? Just live her last few years without him? How does someone adapt to a change that drastic? 

But then Carol thinks about Yvonne Johansen, the young mother who only knew her daughter for thirty seven hours and five minutes before death forced them apart, and she comes to the realization that maybe the length of time has no bearing on the depth of grief. Whether it’s a short thirty seven hours and five minutes or sixty long years, maybe grief is always the worst possible pain a human being is able to feel.

Carol is instantly filled with panic.

“Oh no,” she mutters.

“What?” Michonne asks.

“I have to go.” 

Michonne tears her eyes from where she’s still watching Mrs. Barnett like a hawk, making sure she doesn’t mess up her late husband’s restoration, to turn her attention to Carol.

“What? Why? Are you okay?” When Carol shakes her head Michonne looks stricken. “Shit, your water didn’t break did it?” She leans down to check between Carol’s legs to see if there’s anything leaking. Carol smacks her.

“No my water didn’t break. Stand up before you interrupt the service.”

“Like anyone is gonna notice us with that going on up front,” Michonne says, standing straight again. She nods at where Mrs. Barnett has pulled herself away from the two women and has draped herself over Mr. Barnett’s chest. “Now what’s the matter?”

“Nothing, I just have to go break up with Daryl real quick.”

“ _ What? _ ” Michonne snaps in a harsh whisper. “Why?”

“Because love is nothing but guaranteed suffering and the only way to prevent heartbreak is to never give your heart to anybody. You can handle the rest of the funeral, right?”

“Of course I can, but Carol—”

“Thanks. I’ll see you later,” Carol says, cutting her off. She dips out of the room as inconspicuously as possible, ignoring Michonne’s protests, and heads out the front door, Mrs. Barnett’s wailing following her the whole way there.

*

Daryl had given her a key to his house, but the door is already unlocked when she arrives. She doesn’t give herself time to overthink. She turns the knob and steps inside and finds Daryl lying sprawled out on his stomach across the couch. He lifts himself up onto his elbows when she enters and immediately frowns. 

“Hi, how are you feeling?” Carol asks in a rush. 

“Um. Alright, I s’pose. Pain’s only bad when I move around. Why do you look like that? That look on your face, you look like someone died...or, well, you know what I mean.” 

“Yeah, um, I’m glad you’re feeling better, but listen, I can’t do this anymore.” 

Daryl blinks at her.

“Do what anymore?” he asks.

“Us. Him. This.” She gestures around the room. “All of it. I thought maybe I could put everything behind me, but today I remembered why I vowed to never get attached to anyone ever again, and I have to stay true to that.”

“What? Carol, don’t—” Daryl tries to sit up, but winces in pain.

“No, don’t try and move, you’ll hurt yourself. Which is a whole other thing. You almost died yesterday. I would have grieved for you, Daryl, like you do for someone you...you know, care about. And I swore, I  _ swore _ , I wouldn’t make myself vulnerable like that again.”

“Okay, but have you noticed that I’m here and breathin’ just fine? You’re talkin’ like I actually kicked the bucket, but I didn’t, Carol.”

“But you  _ could have _ . And if not yesterday, then maybe tomorrow, or hell, even sixty years from now. It doesn’t matter when it happens, Daryl, if we stay together, then at some point one of us is gonna die, and the other is gonna have to grieve, and I can’t do that to myself, and I refuse to do it to you. You don’t know how much it hurts. You don’t know how fucking  _ bottomless _ the pain of grief is. I can’t be responsible for doing that to you, or to our son.  _ Your _ son.” 

“Maybe I don’t know how it feels exactly, but I know that it must be worth it, ‘cause why else would people even bother with each other if it weren’t? Look, is this about what I said yesterday? ‘Cause I was doped up, okay? And I didn’t mean—”

“Yes you did,” Carol says. “You meant it. We both know you did. And I wish I could let you keep meaning it, but I can’t. I won’t.” 

“Um,” comes a voice from the other room. Carol and Daryl look to see Rick standing in the doorway to the nursery. A second later Merle comes up beside him. There are splotches of . blue paint on their clothes.

“Y’all alright out here?” Merle asks, eyes flitting between Daryl and Carol. 

“We’re fine,” Daryl says shortly. To Carol, he says, “They’re helpin’ get the nursery together since I’m out of commission.”

“Right,” Carol says. “I should go.” 

“Don’t,” Daryl pleads. “Or at least come back later so we can talk more.”

“There’s nothing else to talk about,” Carol says. She nods awkwardly at Rick and Merle, who give her the tightest smiles she’s ever seen. 

“Carol,” Daryl says quietly. He stares at her with wounded, kicked-puppy eyes, and for a split second she almost loses her resolve, but she shakes herself out of it.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and then leaves without looking back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remain chill, my dudes.
> 
> two chaps and an epilogue left.
> 
> hold tight
> 
> deuces,  
> -diz


	15. XV. Can't Promise Forever

Daryl’s ass hurts. His heart also hurts. Also Adele is playing. Why is Adele playing? 

Oh good, it’s gotta be his fucking phone again.

Groaning, Daryl, lying on his stomach, pats around his bed until he finds his cell phone. It has a jagged crack that goes from the upper lefthand corner down to the lower right, and it’s blasting a depressing Adele song from the Spotify app. It’s not even Daryl’s Spotify account. It’s Rick’s. And Daryl certainly didn’t turn it on, but ever since he fell off that roof with his cell in his back pocket the piece of shit keeps glitching. 

Over the past few days it has taken fifty two blurry pictures of the wall or floor or whatever it happens to be facing at the time, it’s dialed and left a lengthy message of absolutely nothing on Daryl’s dentist’s answering machine, and, most annoying of all, it has made a habit of opening the Spotify app and playing songs at random, and every time Daryl tries to turn it off or uninstall it the entire phone freezes, and he ends up having to wait it out. He really needs to replace the phone, but it still makes and receives calls—(including ones Daryl did not intend to dial)—so technically it works, and he’s too depressed to handle going to the phone store and talking to a peppy twenty-something with a tablet and a lanyard, trying to sell him gadgets that make him wonder when the fuck he got old.

And so he listens to Adele for a few minutes, until his phone glitches back to normal, and he smooshes his face into his pillow and wonders if he could smother himself to death like this.

Why the fuck did he tell her that he loved her? Everything about their relationship was tenuous, and they were _so_ not at a place to handle that kind of declaration, and yet he opened his dumb mouth and said it anyway. He doesn’t care if he gets his ass bitten off by an alligator—he is never taking pain pills again.

It’s been a few days since Carol showed up and unceremoniously kicked him to the curb, and the shock has worn off. To make matters worse, he doesn’t even have the luxury of distracting himself with work because he’s still out on broken-ass leave.

Daryl has never been dumped before.

The closest thing he’s experienced is the two or three times he got his rocks off with some stranger and they were gone by morning without a goodbye, but he’d always counted those as mutual agreements—the type of hookup that begins with the implications that they’re never gonna acknowledge each other’s existence again—so he’s never taken those personally. He doesn’t date people, unless you count Sally Abbott in ninth grade, who sucked face with him by the dumpsters behind the school before first period for two weeks, until she suddenly iced him out and got with that third place varsity wrestler kid, Clyde. Daryl _had_ taken that one personally, but there was a rumor a few months later that Sally had given Clyde head and his pubic hair got stuck in her braces, and that made Daryl feel a little better.

But Carol doesn’t wear braces, and the thought of her giving anyone else head certainly doesn’t do much to soothe his wounds. Figures that his first real breakup would be this dramatic. It would have been nice if he could have built up to it with a few semi-serious flings first. Just a few minor breakups to build a bit of callus around his heart. But of course not. He had to do the big stuff all at once—meet the love of his life, get her pregnant, track down a missing dead body with her, get dumped—all the major milestones.

What in the fresh hell is he supposed to do with himself? Get a gallon of ice cream and eat it from the tub while watching Nicholas Sparks movies? Get one of those aerosol whipped cream cans and spray it directly into his mouth? Listen to more fucking Adele? 

He’s a mess and a half, and he hates himself for it, because he knew this was always a possibility. He can’t blame Carol for this because she was transparent with him from the start. This is his own damn fault for being optimistic for the first and only time in his life. Hasn’t the everything about his life so far told him that optimism is a stupid-ass idea?

At least there’s still the baby. That’s the one thing keeping him from rotting away into nothing with melted ice cream spilled all over his lap and _A Walk to Remember_ playing in the background. But even thinking about his son doesn’t subdue everything, because to think of him means to think of her, and until he has that kid home and in his arms there’s no way to delineate the two. 

Maybe he’ll just lie here face down in bed until Carol goes into labor and he has no choice but to get up.

Right as he thinks this, the doorbell rings, startling him out of his melancholic trance.

He makes no moves to get out of bed. Whoever’s at the door can get fucked. The only person he has any desire to talk to is Carol, and even then, only if she’s saying she made a mistake, such a big mistake, and actually she would like to be with him forever if that’s alright?

Fuck. What if it’s Carol at the door coming to say she’s changed her mind and wants to be with him forever?

Even though he’s reasonably sure that it’s not, Daryl can’t take the chance, and rolls out of bed with a groan, ignoring the ache in the base of his spine the best he can.

Limping through the living room, he goes and throws open the front door and is met with the polar opposite of Carol.

“You look like hell, little brother,” Merle says, clapping Daryl on the shoulder as he lets himself in without an invitation. Daryl scowls, both annoyed and disappointed.

“What do you want, Merle?” he asks. He slams the door and faces his brother with his arms crossed.

“Came to check on you,” Merle says. He looks Daryl up and down and clicks his tongue. “Wanted to make sure you wasn’t lyin’ in a heap of your own filth feelin’ sorry for yourself, but by the looks of it that’s exactly what you been up to, huh? When was the last time you showered, boy?”

“When was the last time you did?” Daryl counters. He goes and flops down on his belly on the couch, pressing his face into a throw pillow.

“I’m a hard-workin’ citizen now, remember? I been up, showered, and shaved since dawn.”

“Good for you,” Daryl says, voice muffled.

“Mm, this chick’s got you all kinds of twisted. I never seen you such a mess.”

“Thanks. Fuck you, too.” 

“Hey, I’m just sayin’ that there ain’t no bird on the planet worth losin’ your mind over. Gotta buck up, baby brother, get your shit back together.”

Daryl doesn’t bother to argue that Carol is definitely worth losing his mind over, because he can say with certainty that he’s never gonna find anyone else like her.

“C’mon now, kid, you’re bummin’ me out.” Merle’s voice is closer, and Daryl can feel him leaning over the back of the couch.

“Mmph,” says Daryl. 

“You’re a daddy, remember? You gotta get yourself right for your son.”

Daryl lifts his head high enough to squint at his brother.

“You see any babies in here?” he asks Merle.

“I mean, no, the timer on that oven’s still tickin’.”

“Exactly. That means I ain’t a daddy yet, and can leave my shit a mess if I want to. Go home and leave me be.”

“I was wrong,” Merle says. “There _is_ a baby in here. And I’m lookin’ at him.”

Daryl rolls his eyes and plops his face right back down.

“Save the tough love for someone who gives a damn, Merle,” he mumbles.

“Here, I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna tell you a story I ain’t ever told you before, ‘bout this girl I was sweet on back when I was runnin’ around dealin’ with the guys ‘fore the pigs came and ruined the party.”

“Mm.”

Not discouraged by Daryl’s apparent lack of enthusiasm, Merle plows ahead, saying, “She used to come around this biker joint we used to hang out at. And let it be known, there was plenty o’ tail to chase, and yours truly was an exceptional shot, but there was somethin’ about this woman that made us all stand at attention, if you catch my drift. Cute, red-headed lil’ thing. Always had a thing for redheads—ha, must be genetic—but she had the body to match. On my life, man, she had tits out to here.” A pause. “You gotta look up from the couch to see.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“C’mon.”

“I don’t care how big some girl’s tits were.”

“It’s important to the story.” 

“I’m willin’ to bet it’s really not.”

“Daryl, you gotta look to understand.”

“Bleedin’ mother of—” Daryl lifts his head up with a glare and sees Merle holding his hands out, palms facing in, a good foot from his chest. Daryl stares at his brother for a beat.

“Wow,” he says deadpan, and lowers his head back down.

“Right? And she had an ass to match.”

“Does this story have a point or are you just addin’ insult to injury here?” 

“Just tryna paint you a word picture, bro. But anyways, problem was that she was with this guy, Mike. And Mike was one bad mother, alright, like no one fucked with him, which meant she was totally off limits. But I’d never felt this way ‘bout any other chick, and I knew I had to do somethin’.

“One night, I’m havin’ a smoke and she comes out and asks if I got a light, and I’m like, shit, man, it’s now or never, right? So I light her up and start putin’ those Dixon moves on her. And man, she was so into it. No one ever dared to hit on her ‘cause she was Mike’s girl, and I could tell she liked my cohones. And lemme tell you, little brother, those weren’t the only cohones of mine she liked that night.”

“Gross.”

“Anyway, Mike found out, ‘cause some snitch saw me leave with her, and the dude beat the holy hell outta me.” 

Merle goes silent and Daryl glances up to furrow his brow at him.

“And then what?” he asks. Merle mirrors Daryl’s bemused expression.

“Whaddya mean?”

“I mean, what happened next? Did you get back with the girl? Did she dump, Mike?” 

“Dump him? Hell no. Dude was loaded, why would she leave him? Nah, Mike broke my jaw, and I never spoke to her again.”

“Then...then what was the point?”

“Of what?”

“Of tellin’ me that gross story!” 

“Boy, you’re off your gourd for real. The point is that good things come to those who work for it.” The “duh” is implied. Daryl props himself up on his forearms to gape at him properly.

“You tell me about a time you fucked someone else’s girlfriend and rightfully got beat up for it, and the takeaway I’m s’posed to get is, ‘you can do anything you set your mind to’? The fuck?”

“I got the pussy I wanted, didn’t I?” 

“Yeah, and a broken jaw, Merle, Jesus Christ.” 

“Well that’s your other takeaway, then. Love hurts.”

“That wasn’t _love_. That was you wantin’ to stick your dick into some dude’s girl. How is that s’posed to make me feel better?” 

“Hell, man, I just thought it would help you sort out your situation.”

“ _How?_ ” 

Merle makes a “I dunno” sound, and Daryl presses the base of his palms against his eyes and does a four-second meditation to calm himself.

“Leave,” he says then, pointing at the front door.

“But—”

“Goodbye, Merle!” he shouts. Merle scoffs at him and shows himself out, muttering something to the effect of “ungrateful” and “didn’t even get it”. 

After he’s left, Daryl makes himself as comfortable as someone with a broken ass can be, and picks up the remote off the coffee table. He flips through shows and lands on a channel where _The Notebook_ started a few minutes prior. 

Sighing, he tosses the remote back onto the table and wonders if he can get ice cream and Reddi Whip delivered. 

*

Around noon, Daryl is through a full pint of Ben and Jerry’s AmeriCone Dream and one full sappy romance movie when his doorbell rings again. Having learned his lesson the first time, he stays put. The doorbell rings again a minute later, and still he makes no attempt to answer it. His unwanted caller can take a fucking hint. They can’t stay out there forever, and it’s not like they’d barge right in. 

“Daryl, stop ignoring us,” comes Michonne’s voice as she throws open the front door and barges right in. Daryl looks over to find Rick trailing sheepishly behind her, casting him an apologetic smile.

“The fuck?” Daryl asks with a scowl. “Who just walks into someone’s house uninvited? What if I’d been in my drawls?”

“I give dead bodies makeovers for a living. Trust me, I’ve seen worse,” Michonne says, unremorseful. She stands behind the couch, crossing her arms and looming over him with a severe expression on her face. “Anyway,” she continues. “It’s time for you to fix this.” 

“Fix what?” Daryl asks, wishing real hard that it didn’t hurt like hell to sit up, because it’s very hard to appear assertive when all you can do is lie on your belly. The empty ice cream container and the Nicholas Sparks movie marathon playing in the background don’t exactly help either.

“You and Carol,” Michonne says, exasperated, as if it should be obvious. “This break up or whatever you want to call it has been fun, but it’s run its course, so c’mon now, go get the girl. Chop chop.” She claps her hands twice, and Daryl narrows his eyes at her.

“Y’all realize _she_ dumped _me_ , right? And it’s not like she didn’t warn me that she might. Hell, our whole thing started out with a hookup and then her ghosting me for a month. If anyone’s the asshole here it’s me for expectin’ her to, I dunno, gimme what she can’t. And there ain’t nothin’ about that I can fix, so you two can go on home now.”

“You and I both know that the venn diagram of what Carol wants and what Carol is scared of having is one, big circle,” Michonne says. “It’s _painfully_ obvious that she wants to be with you. She’s been so depressed the past week that during an intake, a client asked _her_ if she needed to talk.”

Daryl would never wish ill on Carol, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel just a little vindicated knowing that she isn’t snapping back from this easily either.

“Listen, Carol was clear with me from the jump that our shit might not work out. I ain’t about to go make her feel guilty by standin’ out in the rain blarin’ sappy music outside her window and beggin’ her to take me back. This ain’t a movie. Real life ain’t always that simple.”

“And sometimes it is,” Michonne says. “If it’s important, it’s simple.” 

Daryl huffs a sigh and turns his head back to the TV where a generic romance scene is happening, indecipherable from all the other generic romance scenes he’s watched today.

“Rick, talk some sense into your girl.”

“I don’t know, brother,” Rick says tentatively. “Maybe with this one she’s right. Both of you are a lot happier together than apart.”

Daryl is perfectly aware of this fact.

“Let it go, ya’ll. I’m not gonna pressure her into nothin’. I know this complicates your guys’ whole thing, and I am sorry about that, but that’s just how shit’s gotta be.”

“This has nothing to do with us,” Michonne says, tone gentle but firm. “And it doesn’t have to be like this if you don’t want it to be.”

Daryl says nothing. Michonne and Rick loiter behind the couch for another minute before deciding they’ve said their piece.

“Hey, give me a second, I’ll meet you in the car,” Daryl hears Rick say. In spite of himself, Daryl glances over at his friend.

“What?” he asks flatly.

“Just...lemme know if you need anything, alright? I mean it.” Daryl grunts in the affirmative, and Rick puts one foot over the threshold, but pauses. “Hey, Daryl?”

“Hm?”

“For the record, I do think not going to her might be a huge mistake.”

Daryl averts his eyes and doesn’t reply, but Rick doesn’t seem to expect one anyway. He leaves without another word, and Daryl grimaces to himself, wondering if he should have told the truth.

He can’t go to her because he doesn’t think his heart can take it if she rejects him again.

*

At about three PM, when Daryl is a fourth of the way through a sheet cake he’s eating from the box with a fork, the doorbell rings yet again, and Daryl has had just about enough of this bullshit.

He thunks the cake down onto the table, the metal fork clattering beside it, splattering bits of frosting all over, and he gets up from the couch in an angry huff. Or, well, more like in a stilted, pained huff, but it has an underlying anger to it. He then throws the front door open, and comes face-to-face with a startled Glenn.

“Daryl?” Glenn says, his eyebrows flying up to his hairline. “What are you doing here?”

“What?” Daryl asks, his anger damped by the weird question. “What am I doin’ here? I _live_ here. What the hell are _you_ doin’ here?"

“Michonne gave me this address and told me I was supposed to pick up a dead body,” Glenn says. To illustrate his point he gestures behind him at the mortuary’s big not-pedo van parked on the street outside of Daryl’s house. “She said it was a home death; that the guy died on the couch all alone.” 

Daryl’s anger un-dampens. 

“Did she now?”

“Yeah. You—er—don’t have a corpse in there for me, do you?” 

“Take a guess.”

“I’m guessing no. But then why did Michonne send me here? Maybe she wrote the address down wrong. Maybe it’s off a number or something. Have you noticed any of your neighbors being weirdly absent lately?” 

“Yeah, now that you mention it, the old lady two doors down hasn’t come out to wave her cane at the squirrels in a week or two, and is in her house gettin’ nice and ripe, and it’s just one big coincidence that you ended up at my door instead. For fuck’s sake, don’t be stupid, Glenn,” Daryl snaps. “There is no dead body. She tricked you into coming here. She wants you to pester me about Carol.”

“ _Ohhh_ ,” Glenn says, putting two and two together at last. “That was smart, because I totally wouldn’t have come otherwise. No offense, dude, but you’re kind of intimidating. It’s something about your eyes. You’ve got this like, perpetual glare.” 

“Thanks,” Daryl says flatly. “And goodbye.” He starts to close the door, but Glenn puts his hand up to stop him. 

“Real quick, though,” he says. “What _is_ going on with you and Carol? She’s been in a bad mood every day. It’s really throwing off the vibe at work. Everything feels so bleak.”

“Right. ‘Cause the mortuary of all places was happy as fuckin’ Disneyland. Look, why don’t you run along and mind your damn business. I’m sure there’s a stiff waitin’ somewhere with your name on it.” 

Glenn, looking pensive, doesn’t move from his spot in the doorway. 

“Did you guys break up for real?” he asks. 

“What part of ‘mind your business’ didn’t make sense to you?”

“Sorry, it’s just that you guys seemed really compatible, you know? I love Carol, don’t get me wrong, she’s a great boss, but she’s never exactly been all sunshine and roses. At least not until she met you.”

“The fuck are you talkin’ about? Carol is Carol, whether I’m there or not.” 

“No, that’s not true,” Glenn says. “Can I have some water, by the way?” Without waiting for an answer, he sidesteps Daryl into the house, and Daryl wonders when everyone on the goddamn planet forgot basic fucking etiquette about inviting themselves into people’s homes. 

“What do you mean?” Daryl asks, irritated, but needing to know.

“Hm. I guess it’s like, you know how Carol is super intimidating—not like you, I mean like, genuinely scary sometimes, because she’s this tough, funny, but kind of intense woman?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well, when you’re around”—Glenn pauses to turn on Daryl’s faucet and drink water from his cupped hands, and Daryl isn’t sure if it’s rude or polite, since it saves him the hassle of washing a glass—“she’s still all of those things, except way happier. I’ve worked for her since _Memento Mori_ opened, and I think I’ve heard her laugh more in these past few months alone than in the past four years combined.” Glenn dries his hands on his pants and shrugs. “You’re right, it’s not my business. I guess I just think it’s a bummer that she might not laugh like that anymore. That’s all.” 

Daryl, who would probably move the sun to keep it out of Carol’s eyes if he could, certainly doesn’t want her to stop laughing either. As it so happens, her laugh is one of his top five favorite sounds. But he doesn’t know what anybody expects him to do, and so he, as he often does, says nothing. 

“Anyway, thanks for the water,” Glenn says when the silence grows too awkward. “The air conditioner in the van is broken, which is totally unfair. My passengers get to ride in a literal refrigerator, but I gotta melt.” He shakes his head as he shows himself to the door, but pauses when he notices the cake on the coffee table. Frowning, he asks, “It’s not your birthday is it?” 

“No. I got groceries delivered and the store offered it to me at a discount and I was like, why the hell not?”

“Why was it at a discount?” 

“‘Cause it was s’posed to say ‘Happy Birthday, Curt,’ but they wrote an N instead of an R.”

“Binthday? That’s a weird typo,” Glenn says, and Daryl rolls his eyes.

“The R in Curt, dumbass.” 

“Oh.” A pause. “ _Oh_.”

“Yeah, whatever, a cake’s a cake. Pairs well with bein’ a sad, sorry, sonuva bitch.” 

Glenn gives him a sympathetic half-smile that’s more irritating than anything, and waves goodbye as he heads to his van.

Daryl watches him go, and then watches the closed door after he’s gone, standing there still in a depressed haze. Eventually, he lets out a long sigh and limps back to the couch. He gets himself situated and then stabs his fork into the cake, taking out a big chunk of a buttercream Cunt, and then eats it unenthusiastically.

He’s tasted better.

*

When five o’clock rolls around and there have been no more unwanted visitors, Daryl decides to let his guard down. 

The doorbell rings five minutes later.

It hasn’t worked so far, but he decides to try ignoring it again. 

“Yo, Dixon, I can see that your TV’s on through the window. I know you’re in there, open up!” 

Tara.

Of course.

“Unless you’re a delivery driver with a bag of food I don’t got nothin’ for you,” Daryl yells back.

“Dude, let me in.”

“Go away.”

Daryl hears the muffled sounds of his screen door creaking and his doorknob rattling, and instantly kicks himself for not having had the sense to lock the deadbolt. Tara lets herself inside a moment later.

“Has everyone and their dog forgot their manners today?” Daryl snaps before Tara has a chance to say anything. “Bargin’ into people’s houses with no invitation. You know, if this was the small town I grew up in you’d’ve been shot by now.” 

“That’s why I keep voting for gun reform, hashtag I’m with her,” Tara says, completely unfazed. She comes around to where Daryl has nearly atrophied to the couch, surrounded by a truly mortifying cumulation of snacks. She surveys the disaster, and then plucks up a bag of barbecue chips off the table. Sitting in the armchair and shoveling a small handful of chips into her mouth, she says, spitting crumbs as she speaks, “So what the fuck is going on? This is not what your Lesbian Jedi Master taught you.”

Daryl debates being affronted with Tara’s audacity for approximately two and a half seconds before deciding it’s not worth the energy when he already knows he’s going to lose, and so he deflates instead, allowing himself to display the true extent of his patheticism for the first time. 

“I thought I was gonna get everythin’ I wanted, man. I really did. And then life bit me in the ass,” he says, defeated.

“I thought the ass problems were ‘cause you fell off a roof.”

“That too.” Sighing, he props himself up in a semi-sitting position, awkwardly balancing his weight more on the side of his hip than his tailbone. He was trying to look a bit more dignified than a facedown lump, but he’s not sure this is really all that better. He shrugs at Tara. “It sucks. All of it. Sucks real bad.”

In response, Tara holds the bag of chips out to him, and he reaches in and grabs a few.

“Fanks,” he says, chewing with his mouth open. He swallows. “I don’t blame her. I really don’t. But that means I don’t got no one to be mad at, and if I ain’t mad then I’m sad and that’s so much worse.” 

“You could just pretend to be mad and take the anger out on your employees. That’s what Carol does, apparently.”

“‘Kay, but did you deserve it?” 

“Depends on your perspective. Michonne thought it was funny, but I guess putting ‘current embalmer, future corpse’ on my business cards is ‘unprofessional’,” she says, doing air quotes.

“Eh, you’ve done worse.”

“See, that’s what I said.” 

Daryl’s lip quips up, and it's been so long since he last smiled that his face muscles barely remember how. 

“Well, sorry I’m responsible for her garbage mood,” he says. 

“You could make it up to me and go be responsible for her good mood,” Tara says, and Daryl sighs.

“All day y’all have been tryna get me to go and talk to her—well, except Merle, I’m still not sure what Merle was tryna do—but it’s a dumbass idea, and I don’t get how y’all don’t see that.” 

“So what, then? You’re just gonna sit here in a pile of snack cakes and potato chips until the baby comes? And after that? It’s not like the baby is gonna magically make you forget her.”

“I know that,” Daryl says, frowning at his hands as he picks at a nail. “But it’s my only option.” 

“Look, in 99.9% of cases, when someone breaks up with you, you should respect that decision and not harass them about it, but this is an extenuating circumstance, because Carol didn’t dump you because she thought it was what was best. She did it because she was scared. And it’s a mistake not to do shit just because you’re scared of it.”

“Maybe.” 

“Not maybe. It’s true. That’s why I helped you with that date in the first place. Because I saw how much you both wanted each other, and how stupid afraid you both were, too. Being in the same room with you guys was _exhausting_. The sexual tension was through the roof, but you acted like kids at a christian school dance, all stiff and leaving room for Jesus in between. But then you took that initiative, and it got way different, and for the better, and I don’t want to see all my hard work go to waste. Go to her, Daryl. You’re the lesbian that lesbi-can.”

“‘But what if you’re wrong?” Daryl asks, throwing his hands up. “What if I’m a lesbi-can’t? Or a lesbi-shouldn’t? She’s been through some crazy terrible stuff in her life. Who the hell am I to tell her how to deal with it?”

Tara regards him for a long moment. She sets the chip bag aside and dusts off her hands. 

“I’m gonna tell you a story,” she says. 

“Is it gonna be a gross one with no point? ‘Cause I already heard one of them today.”

“It’s not.”

“Then go ahead, I guess.” 

“I spent a few good years after high school doing jackshit. I graduated with decent grades, and had prospects and stuff, but I didn’t want to pursue any of them. I had like, no passion for anything, dude, it was awful. My parents weren’t thrilled about the whole gay thing, so I lived with my sister and earned my keep by babysitting my niece, but after a while even my sister started asking me what I was planning to do with my life, and I couldn’t answer her, because I had no clue.

“Well, every Sunday I’d take my niece to the library, and one day I was browsing the shelves and rounded a corner and bam! Ran smack dab into this girl who was carrying a huge stack of books. They fell everywhere, and she started apologizing like crazy, and I was all, ‘Hey, dude, it’s chill, I ran into you, remember?’ 

“I helped her pick up the books, and they were all these dense texts about human anatomy, and between sorries she told me that she was studying to be a doctor and was having trouble in her anatomy class. She was _so_ awkward, but in an endearing way, and we hit it off, and by the time it was time for me to take my niece home I had her number in my pocket, because, I mean, I’m smooth as hell, obviously.

“We started seeing each other pretty regularly, and she would talk about that damn anatomy class all the time, and I loved it. Listening to her talk was great, because she was super cute, but I was also fascinated by the topic. I got so into it that at one point she asked me if I ever thought about being a doctor, and I laughed at her and said, ‘No thanks, I don’t want to deal with sick people. Feel free to throw me a cadaver, though, I’d have a ball with one of those.’ And at the time I was joking, but she brought up mortuary science, and that was the first time I ever heard of it. I dunno where I thought funeral directors came from. I guess I thought they just crawled out of coffins during the full moon and started shops or something, but as soon as I realized it was something _I_ could do? That was it. I was hooked.

“I hadn’t done anything forever and had no idea how to get into dead people school, but she helped me every step of the way. She was who I opened my acceptance letter with, and by that summer I had moved out of my sister’s place and in with her. She really, really believed in me, more than anyone else, and our relationship was honestly amazing. And I didn’t trust it at all. I didn’t think something could be that good, and so as much as I wanted to, I just couldn’t find the nerve to get both feet into the pool. I always had a plan B in my back pocket, and I hadn’t even told her I loved her. 

“Then one day she got invited out for a friend’s twenty-first birthday, and I stayed in because I had a lot of homework. Before she left she gave me a kiss and said that she loved me, and like she always did, she left a little pause after it to give me the opportunity to say it back, and like always, I didn’t.” Tara knits her brows together and trains her eyes on the TV where yet another trashy romance movie is playing, but she isn’t watching it.

“What happened to her?” Daryl asks softly. Tara tears her gaze from the TV and smiles sadly at him.

“Stupid. It was _so_ stupid. A fight broke out at the bar she was at, and one of the guys pulled out a gun, and she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” 

The two of them are silent for a long moment.

“Does this story have to do with me and Carol, or is it really you tryna convince me to vote for gun reform?” Daryl asks finally, and Tara laughs. 

“You caught me,” she says. “Nah, man, the point is that I was afraid to tell her that I loved her because I was afraid that if I did then if something happened I would be vulnerable, and I didn’t want to be vulnerable. But here’s the catch: Something _did_ happen, and it hurt _worse_ than it would have if I had been honest, because not only was she gone, but she went thinking I didn’t love her the way she loved me. And I regret that shit every day, dude. Every damn day, and if I could go back in time and tell myself anything, it would be to stop not doing things you want to do because you’re afraid you’re gonna get hurt. You _are_ gonna to get hurt, more than once. Pain is part of living, and happiness is too, but if you refuse to do the things you want, then all you’re gonna have is the hurt, and none of the good.”

Daryl takes a chip in his hand and crumbles it into dust instead of eating it. The skin on his lower lips tastes like metal because he’s bit it hard enough to draw blood. 

“Say I do it. Say I go to her and am like, ‘I want you to reconsider.’” He drums his fingers on his thigh. “What do I do if she still doesn’t want me?” 

“Then you’ll know it was one of the parts of your life that was supposed to hurt,” Tara says. “But the alternative is never knowing if it could have been happiness instead.” 

“Right,” Daryl mumbles, stomach twisted into one big knot. “Well, thanks for comin’ all the way out here to see me, I guess.”

“Oh, I didn’t come out here to see you,” Tara says. “I was already in the neighborhood.”

“What? Why?” 

“Doing a favor for Glenn. A call came in about an hour ago. Your neighbor two doors down was found by her landlord, and judging by the smell he described, it sounds like she’s been there a while.”

“Oh. Shouldn’t you be handling that, then?” 

Tara shrugs.

“Yeah,” she says. “But she’s waited two weeks. Thirty minutes won’t kill her. Especially since the stroke already beat it to the punch. Later, Daryl.” 

Tara gets up from the chair, and, clapping Daryl on the shoulder as she passes, heads out as unceremoniously as she arrived. 

Daryl sits there for another fifteen minutes, and then goes to get his keys.

*

Speeding down the Atlanta streets on his motorcycle, his ass throbbing, Daryl doubts his decision all the way into the parking lot of _Memento Mori_. He continues to doubt it as he turns off the ignition and gets off the bike. He doesn’t have a plan. He probably should have made a plan first, but he’s already here, so fuck it.

He goes to the door and tries to open it, but it’s locked, and he realizes that the mortuary is closed for the day. He takes a step back and looks at the roof of the building and doesn’t see the light on in Carol’s loft, which means she’s probably in her office. Not giving himself time to think, he pulls out his cracked phone, notices it must have called his mechanic on its own earlier, ignores that piece of information, and then dials Carol’s number. 

He’s already working on plan B, thinking there’s no way she’ll answer, when he hears a small, hesitant, “Yeah?” and his heart jumps up to his throat, making it hard for him to speak.

“Hi,” he says. 

“What do you need?” she asks tersely, and Daryl hurries right along, not wanting her to hang up on him.

“I need to talk to you.”

“No, Daryl.” 

“Please,” he says. He feels a drop on his head and he looks up and notices that the clouds above him are growing darker. “Please, just lemme say somethin’ real fast and then you can tell me to get fucked if you want.”

There’s a pause, and then, “Okay, say what you need to say.”

“No, in person. I gotta talk to you in person. I’m already here.”

“You’re at the mortuary?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Daryl, for christ’s sake, please just tell me whatever it is over the phone, I don’t know if I can—”

“Five minutes,” he says, cutting her off. “I don’t even gotta come in. You can come to the door and I’ll say it from here in the parking lot, okay? But give me that five minutes.” 

The silence drags on long enough for Daryl to wonder if she actually did hang up, but then he hears her huff a heavy sigh on the other end of the line.

“Five minutes,” she says. “And then you have to leave.”

“Deal.” 

He hangs up the phone and stares at the front entrance anxiously. A couple more raindrops hit his head, and he squints at the storm clouds billowing in just as a flash of lightning strikes, followed a millisecond later by a crack of thunder, and the droplets turn into actual rain in an instant. He only has a moment to process the sudden downpour, however, when his phone starts blaring music. Cursing, he looks at the screen and sees Rick’s Spotify has decided to play “Yellow” by Coldplay. A side effect he didn’t expect from his work injury is how he now has intimate knowledge of just how bad his friend’s taste in music is. Frantically, he presses the pause button, which instead ups the volume to maximum, loud enough to be heard over the rain.

“Oh my god, please tell me you aren’t pulling a _Say Anything_.”

Daryl snaps his head up and finds a very tired and very pregnant Carol staring at him—standing in the rain with romantic music playing—and she seems horrified.

“No no no,” Daryl says quickly. “It started rainin’ like five seconds ago, and I broke my phone when I fell so now it plays Spotify randomly, I swear to god I didn’t plan this.”

“You listen to Coldplay?” Carol asks, even more aghast. 

“No! Of course not. This is Rick’s log-in.”

“Why do you have Rick’s Spotify on your phone?” 

“‘Cause he dragged me to this dumb thing in Macon last summer and made me download it for the trip and I never bothered to uninstall it, hold on,” Daryl says distractedly, as he tries to shut it off. “Yeah, okay, the screen’s frozen and power off don’t work when it gets like this, I’m gonna just…” He shoves it into his pocket and tries to pretend like they can’t both still hear it playing muffled through his jeans. He looks at Carol and brushes his wet bangs out of his eyes. “Okay, I got shit I gotta say, and you can’t interrupt me. Promise?”

“Whatever,” Carol says, crossing her arms above her giant belly. 

“Right. Cool. So, here’s the thing.” Daryl searches for the right words, remembers that he has no idea how to do that, and decides the hell with it. The scariest thing for him to do right now would be to just say whatever the fuck comes out of his mouth, and Tara said to do the things that scare him, so here goes nothing. “I need you to reconsider.” Carol opens her mouth to protest, but he holds up a hand. “No interruptin’,” he reminds her. She rolls her eyes but remains silent. 

“I wasn’t gonna do this,” he continues. “Like, I been goin’ full high school break up, eatin’ my feelin’s and watchin’ shit movies, just tryna forget about you. But I realized today that I ain’t forgettin’ about you anytime soon, and if you decide to leave me then that’s what it is, but I can’t let you do that ‘til I’ve told you the truth, ‘cause I haven’t been tellin’ you the truth, Carol, not really, ‘cause I been downplayin’ it all, tryna not scare you away. But you got scared off anyways, so I don’t got anythin’ to lose at this point.

“You were right about what I said at the hospital. I shouldn’t have said it then, and I was doped the fuck up, but I meant it. And I’ve _never_ meant that before, Carol, ‘cause I never knew you before. It was always saved for you, I think. A fate thing, maybe, if you wanna go there. Or maybe that’s weird, I dunno. I just know that I love you, and I can raise this baby on my own, and I can even leave the city so we never cross paths if I gotta, but no matter what there’s always gonna be that part of me that belongs to you. And so without you it’ll be empty, and I’m always gonna feel that. It’s a goddamn permanent condition. Which is why your whole thing is bullshit.” Carol raises her eyebrows, but Daryl plows on.

“What you said before, about not lettin’ yourself hurt me, like you’re grantin’ me an act of mercy, it’s bullshit, ‘cause you’ve already wormed your way into my brain forever. Whether we’re together or not, losin’ you—like, in the death way—is always gonna break my heart.” 

When Daryl steps closer to Carol her whole body tenses, but he doesn’t stop until they’re face-to-face. Quieter, he says, “And if that’s the case with me, then I’m thinkin’ it might be the case with you, too. I’m willin’ to guess that maybe I might’ve made a place in your brain like you did in mine. And like, if I’m wrong, then I’ll believe you, but I gotta hear you say it. You gotta look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t love me, and that you don’t love our son. If you can do that…” Daryl shrugs. “Then after the kid is born you won’t ever hear from me again. You have my word.” 

Fighting every cell in his body telling him that right now would be a really fun time to run the fuck away, Daryl stands firm, meets Carol’s eye, and holds steady. They stare at each other for what feels like a milenia, neither of them blinking, but when Carol finally does the tears flood over, spilling down her cheeks, and she looks away with a pained sound, covering her face with her hands. She mumbles something he can’t understand.

“What?” he asks. She drops her arms like weights and glares at him.

“Of course I love you,” she says angrily. “Of course I love this baby. Why would I give a damn if I didn’t? Bastard.” She wipes tears off her cheeks, but more take their place. 

“Wait, seriously?” Daryl says, and Carol blinks at him with a bemused expression.

“Yes? That’s what I said, wasn’t it? That’s what you wanted to hear?” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t expect that to actually work,” Daryl says, letting out a small, somewhat hysterical laugh. “I thought I just watched too many romance movies today and was gettin’ cocky, but I’ll be damned, that shit really worked.” 

“Yes, well that’s great and all,” Carol says, not nearly as amused as Daryl. “But I don’t see how this changes anything.”

“Sweetheart, listen to me, okay,” Daryl says. Carol nods cautiously. “You spend so much of your time thinkin’ about how every person in your life is just a corpse walkin’, and to get close to anyone means it’s another dead body you gotta deal with. But there’s somethin’ about you and me that you’re forgettin’.” 

“And what’s that?” Carol asks flatly. Daryl takes her hands in his and guides them to her belly.

“When we got put together, the first thing we did was make life.” 

“God,” Carol mutters, ducking her head and shutting her eyes tight as her tears stream like the rain that’s still hitting Daryl’s back. He’s only partially covered by the canopy of the building Carol is protected by, and that Coldplay song is apparently playing on an endless loop in his pocket, but he doesn’t care at all. He uses a finger to lift Carol’s chin and makes her look at him. 

“You know better than most that the Grim Reaper comes knockin’ whenever the hell he feels like it,” he tells her softly. “So as much as I want to promise you forever, I know that I can’t. Hell, I can’t even promise you tomorrow. But I can promise you right now. And every second we’re still kickin’ is another right now I can give you. _Let me._ ” 

Carol takes a steadying breath, and says, “I’m scared.” 

“I know. But I got told recently that lettin’ fear keep you from doin’ the things you want is for pussies.” He strokes the side of her cheek. “Don’t let death be your everything, baby. You know death don’t exist without life. You gotta have ‘em both.” 

Carol wets her bottom lip with her tongue and Daryl sees her waging a war with her thoughts. He pretends to be patient.

Finally, she huffs in irritation, and says, “Fuck this,” right before putting a hand behind Daryl’s neck and pulling him down to her. 

He goes with ease, and the two of them kiss like they never have before. 

They kiss like two people in love. 

“You got one hell of a knack of ruining all my plans,” Carol whispers against his lips when they finally part. 

“Yeah, well your plans were to be sad and then die, so I don’t feel that bad about it,” Daryl whispers back, surprised he’s even able to talk. Somehow Carol has ended up in the rain with him, and they’re soaked to the bone like they were on the day they first met. He nuzzles her nose with his and says, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Carol says after only a small hesitation. “God help me.” 

“I’ll try an’ make it worth your while.” 

“If that’s you hitting on me you should know that I am incapable of getting horny when Coldplay is playing.” 

“Yeah, I gotta replace this thing.” 

“Not right now, though,” Carol says, taking him by the wrist. “Stay with me tonight.” 

“‘Course. And what about tomorrow night?”

“If you’re lucky.”

“And the night after that?” 

“Maybe even then, too.” 

Daryl lets her lead him into the mortuary and out of the rain. He adds then, as an afterthought,

“You should consider giving Tara a raise.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i never knew what the term "suffering for your art" meant until i listened to a coldplay song on repeat to write that scene. very bad, 0/10, would not recommend
> 
> i laughed at my own jokes so much during this chapter, i'm so gross (but oh so funny)
> 
> lmao, anyway, one (1) chapter left, and a brief epilogue, both of which will be uploaded at the same time, so my next update will be the last. im excited for y'all to read it, but im gonna miss this thing. it's fun as fuck to write
> 
> aight, later homies,  
> -diz


	16. XVI. Nine Times Out of Ten

Letting herself be in love is a concept so foreign to Carol that she wonders how she ever thought she knew what it felt like before. Even in the beginning of her marriage, before Ed started hitting her, Carol never felt like this.

Truth be told, it’s overwhelming; would be almost unbearable if not for the fact that she knows without a shadow of a doubt that she’s loved in return and therefore protected. Carol feels obsessed—like she suddenly understands how crazy love makes a person; why Etta would rather go blind, or why Dolly would throw hands with Jolene to keep her man. Carol can’t get enough of Daryl.

And not just sexually, although that’s nice too. They’re small things, insignificant moments that never would have registered to her before, that has her awash with crushing adoration out of nowhere. Like the way Daryl will stop her in the hall to fix the tag sticking out of the back of her shirt, or how when he holds her hand he’ll trace small circles on her wrist with his thumb, always counterclockwise. It’s how even when he thinks she’s already asleep he’ll brush his lips against her cheek and whisper goodnight. It’s how even though she’s currently a whale with acne and gas he still looks at her like he truly believes she’s beautiful.

And Carol wishes she had more time to revel in all these new, intense discoveries, but she’s currently a whale with acne and gas because she’s got a baby inside her that could make his debut any time now, and after having spent the majority of her pregnancy preparing herself to give him up, she has to cram eight months of preparing to be a mother into a matter of weeks.

No pressure, though.

As terrified as Carol is about having a baby again, however, it’s starting to get overshadowed by the fact that she is 110% fucking over the whole being pregnant thing. All things considered, she’s had a pretty easy go of it. Her morning sickness had been tolerable, and except for that one scare early on, her and her accidental house guest—or, rather, her and her  _ son _ —have passed all their checkups with flying colors, and that’s great and all, but no amount of good scans, on-target fundal heights, or normal levels of amniotic fluid can make the home stretch of this pregnancy any less than what seems to be a punishment from God to see just how uncomfortable Carol can get before she takes a kitchen knife to her stomach and performs a C-section on herself.

She doesn’t remember her pregnancy with Sophia being this unbearable towards the end, but that may have been due to the fact that Ed never would have allowed her to complain and so she blocked it out.

Daryl isn’t Ed, though, far from it, and bless his poor, sweet, southern boy soul, but he has, and will continue to hear about each and every ache, pain, piss, fart, stretch mark, weird vaginal discharge, hemorrhoid, and rash until she’s shoved this kid out of her and has her body back as her own.

“I wish I was Mr. Brewer,” Carol mumbles into her pillow. It’s about two in the morning at Daryl’s house where she’s been staying for the remainder of her pregnancy, as had been the plan before that whole blip on the radar when she broke up with him. (But that was a week and a half ago, no sense dwelling on the past, moving right along, etc.) Carol has been trying to sleep since nine and has gotten about forty minutes at best.

“Isn’t that the guy you cremated today who fell into a meat grinder?” Daryl mumbles back, his body curled up next to hers as he half-heartedly massages her shoulder with one hand in a groggy haze. Daryl has gotten a comparable amount of sleep due to Carol moving around, trying in vain to get comfortable and constantly getting up to pee, but she really can’t find it in herself to feel sorry for him when her sciatic nerve is presently on fire from the pressure of her uterus. 

“Yes. Turned to mush and then turned to ash. No body to lug around anymore. That’s the fucking dream.” 

“‘M sorry you’re feelin’ so shitty, sweetheart,” Daryl says. “He’ll get hisseelf outta there here real soon, so promise me you won’t go jumpin’ into any meat grinders.” 

“I wouldn’t fit,” Carol says bitterly.

“Sure you would,” Daryl mumbles through a yawn, and Carol smiles in spite of herself at Daryl’s earnest attempts to make her feel better when he’s too sleepy to have any idea of what he’s saying. 

“Sorry I’m keeping you up,” Carol says, sort of meaning it.

“Don’t gotta be sorry.” He presses a sleepy kiss to the base of her neck. “Good practice, anyhow. Hear babies like to keep you up at night. Might as well get in the habit now, right?”

Carol’s struck by the fact that Daryl is already preparing to help her with the baby throughout the night, which of course he is, because he’s not a piece of shit, but Carol suddenly remembers Ed snapping at her to “shut that kid up” whenever Sophia called for her in the wee hours of the morning, and it just hits her all at once, how badly she’d been treated, and how different a parent Daryl already is and their baby isn’t even born yet.

“What’er’ya thinkin’ about?” Daryl mumbles. 

“I never had a partner in parenthood before,” she whispers, trying to sound stoic. That’s another thing she’s sick of—the damn kid has her hormones flying all over the place. “I remember how hard it was doing it alone, and I almost did that to you.”

“You didn’t almost do nothin’. I volunteered,” Daryl reminds her, a little more coherent. “‘Sides, it don’t matter, ‘cause you’re right here with me.” 

“I am,” Carol says, like she can hardly believe it herself. Truth be told, she can’t. Letting herself be loved doesn’t come naturally. “I might be bad at asking for help,” she feels the need to warn him. To her surprise, Daryl laughs.

“Sweetheart, if you think I don’t already know how fuckin’ stubborn you are, then you’re not as smart as I though you was.” He shifts up to kiss her cheek this time. “I’m up to the challenge,” he whispers in her ear. “Don’t you worry.” 

“Everything about you is new to me,” she admits softly into the quiet darkness.

“You’re new to me, too. That means we’re learnin’ together.” He strokes the length of her arm, and then down the side of her belly, until his hand lands on her thigh. “Now, want me to see what I can do about gettin’ you to sleep?” he asks, voice low. She feels him growing hard against her, and she almost cries because her hormones are batshit and she’s so touched that even like this he still wants to, well, touch her.

“Yes,” she says breathlessly. “After I pee.”

Daryl snorts and rolls back to give her room to clamber awkwardly out of bed. She ducks down to give him a kiss—a promise of her return—before making the all-too-familiar waddle to the bathroom. The hallway has a nightlight plugged in the socket to light her way. Daryl bought it for her the other day unprompted. 

It’s the little things, she thinks, that make letting herself be loved surreal.

*

“I personally think mahogany would suit you nicely. We could do a nice velvet interior. You’re married aren’t you? If you buy a joint plot you get a discount.”

“Carol,” Daryl says warningly, a hand on the small of her back. “Stop threatenin’ the doc.”

Carol glares at him, and then turns back to her OB-GYN, who has an infuriating smile on her face, as if she thinks Carol is  _ funny _ . Jokes on her, Carol knows better than most how to hide a body.

“Give me one good reason why I can’t be induced,” Carol says.

“Well, to start,” her doctor says, removing the gloves she used to invade Carol’s most private of privacy. “You’re not overdue.”

“So what?” Carol asks. “If you’re baking a loaf of bread you don’t wait until it’s burning to take it out of the oven.”

“I don’t think babies burn if they stay in too long,” Daryl says. 

“Remember, I have your funeral arrangements on file, too,” Carol tells him, and he holds his hands up in surrender.

“Baby is in a good position, he’s measuring the right size, and your blood pressure is perfect,” says the doctor. “There’s simply no reason to intervene. If you get too far past forty weeks we can discuss it, but for now I think the best thing we can do is let him decide when it’s time to come out.”

“He’s a baby. What does he know?” Carol snaps.

“When it comes to being born? More than you’d think.” She pats Carol on the shoulder and is lucky she doesn’t get her fucking hand bitten off. “Keep moving. Go for walks. Try some prenatal yoga. Hell, have sex if you want. Make exercise fun and see if it doesn’t get things started. And if it doesn’t, don’t get discouraged. I’ll schedule you for another check-up next week, assuming I don’t see you before then. Alright?”

“Mm,” Carol grunts. The doctor smiles sympathetically before showing herself out of the room. Once she’s gone, Carol announces, “I hate her.”

“Nah, you don’t,” Daryl says, helping Carol slip her shoes on. “You’re just tired of bein’ pregnant. But doc says it’s good to wait, and she knows best.”

“Whose side are you on?” Carol lets Daryl help her off the examination table, and scowls when he kisses her temple.

“Yours,” he says honestly. “‘Cause I know that as uncomfortable as you are you’d do anythin’ to keep the lil’ dude as healthy as possible.”

“I hate you too,” Carol says, and he grins.

“Nah,” he says with certainty. “You don’t.”

Back at the truck, Daryl opens her door for her and gives her a hand up. He’s still not operating at full capacity, but he hasn’t complained once. The only way Carol knows when he’s hurting is when he grimaces or pops a couple Ibuprofen when he thinks she’s not looking. When he gets in the driver’s side and takes a beat too long to find a way to sit that doesn’t hurt too much, Carol feels a pang of guilt at being so high maintenance, even if it’s warranted.

“Thank you,” she says. Daryl furrows his brow at her.

“For what?” he asks. Carol reaches across the center console to take his hand in hers.

“For putting up with me,” she says. “I know I’m not exactly fun to be around lately.” 

“I always like bein’ around you,” Daryl says so genuinely that Carol’s heart swells. He says it like he truly doesn’t understand why he wouldn’t want to hang out with a grouchy, grumpy, gassy pregnant woman.

“You’re sweet,” she says. “And you and the doctor are right—he can’t stay in here forever. I only have to play incubator for a little while longer. I’ll get through it. I’m just not loving the wait, is all.” 

“I don’t pretend to know what it feels like to lug that load around with you everywhere, but it don’t take a genius to see that you’re strugglin’, so don’t you apologize. You’re entitled to some bitchin’, and the least I can do is listen and do my best to make things as easy as possible for you. You’re doin’ all the work here, and you’re gonna be the one givin’ birth. You worried about that at all, by the way? You been real ready not to be pregnant anymore, but how are you dealin’ with the idea of the big day?”

“Oh, I expect to be high as a goddamn kite,” Carol says. “The second they give me the go-ahead I’ll be telling those nurses to get that epidural started ASAP. I’m gonna be just fine. How are  _ you _ doing with it? I’ve been through childbirth before, but I’m guessing you’ve never had the pleasure. You nervous?”

“Pfft, ‘course, I’m not nervous,” Daryl says nervously. 

“You’re scared out of your mind, aren’t you?” she asks, and his ears go red.

“Nah. It’ll be fine. Childbirth’s natural, right? Everybody had’ta be born. And I ain’t squeamish. I can handle it.”

“Sometimes, if the baby’s head is too big, or the positioning isn’t right, the vagina can rip all the way to the ass, creating one giant cavern that has to be sewed back together into two separate holes,” Carol tells Daryl for the sole purpose of seeing him squirm.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat. “I promise I’ll still love you no matter how many holes you got down there.” He gives a slight smile when Carol laughs.

“In all seriousness,” Carol says once she’s settled down. “It really isn’t childbirth I’m worried about. It’s more the stuff that comes after that I’m trying not to think too hard about.”

“You mean bein’ a momma again?”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I keep oscillating between needing this kid to get the fuck out of me right this minute, and kind of hoping he can stay in there forever, or at least until I feel like I have my shit together...which may take forever. I wish I could turn the thoughts off, but…” She trails off, and Daryl brushes the back of his hand along her jawbone, letting her lean into the touch.

“That makes sense,” he says. “It ain’t like I expected you to up and stop havin’ all your worries just ‘cause I talked to you all pretty like in the rain and won you over. Truth is, with you obsessin’ about the kid’s mortality, and me freakin’ out about not knowin’ the first thing about parenting, I’d say we got all our bases covered.”

“You’re going to be an amazing dad. You don’t need to freak out about that.”

“Thanks. Still gonna, but thanks. And you’re gonna kick it in the ass as a momma. Don’t get up in your head thinkin’ youre gonna fuck the lil’ dude up just ‘cause you got more reason than most to be a bit paranoid. You’ll find a balance, baby, don’t fret.”

“Still gonna,” Carol says with a smirk. “But thanks.” 

*

As a professional who cares about honoring the deceased and treating them with the utmost respect, Carol has strived, since the day she opened the doors to  _ Memento Mori _ Mortuary, to provide the best possible service she can.

The funeral of Alexandria Rhodes is an entirely different ballgame, however.

Alexandria Rhodes, widow of rich fuck, Travis Rhodes, lived the last decade of her life lavishly, her late husband assuring her security by means of a heafty life insurance policy she cashed in before his body had gone cold.

That alone is intimidating enough—rich people always want their money’s worth, even in death—but what has Carol on her toes is not Alexandria’s wealth, but her maiden name. Alexandria Rhodes was formerly known as Alexandria Overland, and with no children to handle her affairs, the task has fallen to her brother, Jonathan. As in, the asshole who reluctantly sources his prized caskets out to Carol’s humble shop. As in, the asshole who could quite easily smear her name if services aren’t up to his standards.

So yes, from the very first corpse who graced her embalming room, Carol has sought to provide the best care. But “best” in this case is substandard. Today’s funeral has to be phenomenal, or she’s out thousands of dollars. 

If only this old woman could have died a few months from now. Carol is way too pregnant to deal with this shit, but what can you do? Nine times out of ten, you don’t get to choose when to die.

Carol and her team already have points against them before the funeral is even set up, because Mr. Overland has been breathing down their neck. He has been bitter from the start that his sister requested to be handled by Carol’s mortuary and not his. Alexandria’s reasoning had been that she didn’t want to make her brother have to go through the pain of preparing her body, and she wasn’t about to give money to his “actual” competition, so  _ Memento Mori _ was a nice compromise. Carol gives the woman the benefit of the doubt that she meant well, but in practice, Alexandria Rhodes’ requests have done nothing but piss everyone off.

“Are you out of your mind? We can’t use that bouquet,” Carol says when she sees Tara arranging a colorful bunch of pink and purple tulips around Alexandria’s extravagant casket.

“What? Why? I thought tulips were what they requested,” Tara says, raising an eyebrow.

“They are, but these won’t do. Look, they’re wilted.” Carol points to a single bulb in the bouquet that is drooping a few millimeters to the side. 

“Dude, seriously? Do you really think that Overland prick will be on your ass over one lopsided flower?”

“Yes,” Carol says without hesitation. “He will be looking for any possible reason to complain. You want to put a messy bouquet on display? Hell, in that case you may as well have not wasted your time covering up her decomposition discoloration.” 

“Dude, she was  _ so _ orange,” Tara says with a chuckle. “Did you see her when she came in? She could have passed for an Oompa Loompa.” 

“Tara, focus please,” Carol says flatly. She winces then, pressing the palms of her hands to her back when a sharp pain shoots up her spine.

“You good?” Tara asks.

“Fine, just pregnant and stressed,” Carol says dismissively, the pain already subsiding. She snaps her fingers and adds, “Fix this,” before going off to check on Michonne’s end of things. 

“Did you get the programs all printed?” Carol asks in lieu of a greeting when she finds Michonne at the front desk sorting pamphlets fresh from the copy store into small stacks.

“Of course,” Michonne says. “And don’t even bother asking—yes, I quadruple checked my work. There’s not a comma out of place, cross my heart.” She hands one of the programs over to Carol who inspects it closely despite Michonne’s promise. The paper is glossy and the design tasteful, and Carol feels a modicum of relief to be able to check one thing off her mile-long to-do list.

“Thank you,” she says gratefully. The bell above the door jingles then, and she has a brief heart attack thinking Mr. Overland has arrived early, but the fear is quickly squashed when she looks over her shoulder and sees Daryl dressed in a simple but nice black suit that he must have bought for this occasion specifically, because Carol knows she’s never seen anything that fancy in his closet before. It makes her momentarily sentimental. He really is her man if he officially has a funeral suit.

“Hey,” he says, coming over and dropping a quick kiss to her cheek. “How’s everythin’ comin’ along, and how can I help?” 

“God, I love you,” Carol says, the words easier to say every time. “This whole thing has me so on edge. Another pair of hands would be amazing.”

“I figured you’d be more likely to be in that douchebag’s good graces if ‘your man’ was with you,” Daryl says with a smirk. Carol rolls her eyes.

The sad thing is that you’re right.”

“Happy to be of service. Now, what all else needs to get done still?”

“Tara is fixing her disaster of a bouquet right now. We need to set up more chairs because he last-minute changed the head count, and I need to get the projector set up and running. He gave me a flashdrive of pictures that I’m supposed to put on loop to play as people arrive.”

“How long before it starts?”

“Two hours,” Carol says, glancing at the analog clock on the wall. “And the place has to be  _ immaculate _ by then. Do you understand?  _ Immaculate _ .”

“Immaculate, got it,” Daryl says with a solid nod. Another sharp pain shoots up Carol’s back and she grimaces. Daryl notices immediately and asks, “Everythin’ alright?”

“Fine. Our son just doesn’t like me being on my feet this long,” Carol says. Daryl’s hands are on her back without a moment’s hesitation, massaging away what little lingers from the pain.

“Maybe you should take a break?” he suggests.

“No time,” Carol says. “I’ll rest when this damn thing is over.”

“You better not push yourself too hard and go into labor in the middle of silent prayer time or anything,” Michonne says, and Carol scoffs.

“Wouldn’t that be my luck?” she says. “No, don’t worry. No babies are coming out of me until Alexandria Rhodes has been laid to rest.”

*

So. Carol is definitely in labor.

The service is underway and everyone has their heads bowed as the preacher recites a prayer Carol has heard said in this room a million times before, meanwhile she is sitting in the back trying not to squirm in her chair as the intermittent back aches from earlier become more consistent and much stronger. 

But she can’t say anything. Especially not to Dary, who is beside her fiddling with the buttons on his cuff as he pretends to pray. If he finds out she’s having contractions he’ll make a scene and insist on getting her to the hospital, and she can’t risk disrupting the service. Daryl would mean well, of course, but just the word “contraction” would send him into a frenzy, and now isn’t the time to explain to him that labor doesn’t happen like it does on TV. She’d had mild contractions off and on for two days before going into active labor with Sophia. The hospital can wait until the funeral is over and Mr. Overland is satisfied and far away from her mortuary.

That doesn’t mean the contractions don’t hurt, though, and pretending like they’re not happening isn’t proving to be the best pain management. 

The word “amen” rumbles through the room, and Carol realizes she zoned out completely. She refocuses by leafing through the program she has resting on her belly. She scans the page and tries to estimate the time left before everyone will get the fuck out. Up next is the eulogy. Right on cue, Mr. Overland—dressed in a suit that looks like it cost as much as his sister’s casket—stands and makes his way over to the podium. 

“I would like to start by thanking all of you for coming and honoring Alexandria’s wishes to have her service done here at this... _ quaint _ establishment,” Mr. Oversland says. “Working in the death industry myself, I’ve heard many a eulogy, and know that long-winded speeches can be mentaly draining when you’re already overcome with grief, so I have endeavored to keep my words precise, and to speak only on the key parts of my sister’s life that we are here to celebrate as well as mourn.”

Good, Carol thinks. The faster the speech the faster they can end the funeral.

Mr. Overland reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a stack of notecards over three inches thick, and when he thumbs through them Carol can see there’s writing on each side of every card. 

“My sister,” he begins solemnly. “Was born on December 12th, 1939. It was a Tuesday. It snowed that day. A blustery winter storm that swept through the small Kansas town where we grew up. There was over a foot of snow on the ground when…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Carol mutters under her breath. As Mr. Overland gives everyone a weather report another contraction hits her. The pains insist on staying mainly in her back, and she feels like her lower spine is being burned with a branding iron.

“You okay?” Daryl leans over and whispers, and Carol damns him for noticing every minute change in her posture and demeanor. 

“Yep,” Carol says. It’s not particularly convincing, but if she says anything else it’ll come out strained, and then Daryl will definitely be suspicious.

“And as the clock rang midnight she toasted to the end of another decade. Now in 1961 she…” Some fifteen to twenty minutes later Mr. Overland is still talking, and by Carol’s count she has had three more contractions, which seems wrong. That would mean they’re coming every three to four minutes, and that’s way too close too fast.

“Seriously, are you okay?” Daryl whispers again as she tries not to break her teeth from clenching her jaw too tight.

“Mhm,” she grunts. Daryl searches her face, his eyes narrowing.

“What ain’t you tellin’ me?” 

“Shh,” Carol tries to deflect, nodding her head towards the front of the room where Mr. Overland has gotten to the late 90s. Wordlessly, Daryl reaches over and places a hand on her stomach.

“ _ Carol _ ,” he hisses. “Your belly’s hard as a rock. Is it s’posed to be like that? Is that what a contraction is? Are you in labor?”

“Keep it down,” Carol hisses back. As the pain eases she regains some of her composure. “It’s fine. If I need to go to the hospital I’ll let you know.”

“That wasn’t an answer. You see how that wasn’t an answer, right?” Daryl whispers. He’s beginning to look panicked, so Carol takes his hand in hers and forces a smile that she hopes lands somewhere in the vicinity of reassuring.

“Okay, yes, I’m having a few contractions,” she admits quietly. When Daryl appears stricken she adds quickly, “But it’s just early labor. It could go on for hours and hours before it becomes anything serious. Let’s just get through this service and then if it seems like I need it we can go get me checked out by the doctor, alright?”

Judging by the expression on Daryl’s face, that plan isn’t even in the same zip code as “alright,” but he’s a worrier, and this is his first kid. It’s understandable that he’d be nervous. But Carol has done this before, and she knows her body, and her body is saying...well, right this second it’s saying, “Oh, fuck, ow!” because she’s having another contraction, but once it passes she’s sure it’ll be saying, “Don’t worry, guys, take your time.” 

“The  _ second _ this thing is over I’m takin’ you to the hospital,” Daryl tells her. That’s a good enough compromise for her, and she nods.

“Long story short,” Mr. Overland says ten minutes later. “My sister lived a very fruitful life and will be sorely missed by all who knew her. Thank you.”

The end of having to listen to Mr. Overland drone on and on is almost as relieving as a contraction passing. Carol looks at her program to remind herself what’s meant to follow the eulogy, and is surprised to find she has crumpled the whole thing up when she was unconsciously clenching it in a tight fist. She glances down at where she’s still got Daryl’s hand in hers and flushes with embarrassment when she sees the tips of his fingers are bright red. She lets go hastily, and Daryl tries to subtly hide how he flexes his hand a couple times to try and get the circulation back.

“Sorry,” she mutters out of the corner of her mouth.

“Don’t worry none about me. Focus on takin’ care of you,” he mutters back, still a ball of anxiety. His eyes flit to where her knees are visible from under her dress, as if he’s expecting her to be dropping a baby onto the funeral room floor at any second.

Up front, the preacher takes his place back at the podium and says, “Please, if you would all join me in a prayer.” 

There are a lot of prayers at funerals, which always strikes Carol as odd, because she figures one would be enough to get the point across. Like, maybe they should try consolidating if it takes five or six separate prayers to bless a dead person. But whatever. She just organizes the funerals, she doesn’t write the scripts.

“Whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die,” the preacher says, just as the strongest pain yet hits Carol. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she accidentally says aloud, bending forward with a grimace.

“Amen,” an attendee a couple rows away says in agreement.

“Praise Him,” says another.

Carol exchanges a glance with Daryl who shrugs.

The remainder of the funeral feels like it’s stuck in time, where nothing is progressing but Carol’s labor, which she’s starting to think she should consider being concerned about, because the contractions are even closer now, and the only reason she’s not crying out is because she’s holding Daryl’s hand again and is funneling all her pain into crushing his fingers. Her back is on fire, even in between contractions, and she could go for a nice epidural right about now. She’ll put up with the pain she has to in order to get through this stupid service—she’s made it this far, no sense in not seeing it to the end—but she has no desire to lose her medication window. Some women find strength and beauty in natural birth; in what the female body is capable of. Carol finds strength and beauty in being numb from the waist down and never having to feel what her body is capable of. She already knows she can make a baby—she doesn’t need to feel it come out of her in order to think she’s hot shit. That’s not news, thank you very much. 

But Alexandria Rhodes is really messing up Carol’s plans. For example, when her next contraction reaches its peak she has pain all the way down in her asshole. Like, her  _ literal _ asshole. If Alexandria could have put off death for a like,  _ one _ week then Carol could be on a shitton of medication right now and wouldn’t need to know what it feels like to have asshole pain.

Maybe she should just start screaming. Sure, it would piss off Mr. Overland, but it’s getting increasingly difficult to remember why she cares about that. 

“They’re heading out to the cemetery,” Daryl whispers in her ear, catching her off guard. She’d zoned out again, trying to trick herself into believing that her deep breathing was doing fucking anything for the pain. She looks up, and after blinking past the blinding white clouding her vision she realizes that Daryl’s right—the attendees are standing up and starting to file out. Glenn is letting family get one last look at Alexandria’s dead face before he closes the casket for good. The funeral is over.

“Drugs,” she tells Daryl in a tight voice. “I need drugs.”

“We’ll get you all the drugs, baby, just lemme get you outta here first.” He helps Carol to her feet, and she lets out a sharp gasp when the change in position sends a bolt of lightning up the length of her back.

“Oh shit, are you in labor?” Tara whispers, swooping in from where she and Michonne are standing directing people to the front door. “I thought you were just faking being emotional to earn points with Mr. Douchebag up there.” 

“I’m having a few contractions,” Carol says.

“A lot of contractions,” Daryl says. He holds up his hand that has marks from where Carol has been squeezing it as evidence. “She said it’s early and could be hours yet, but when they get close together like that, don’t that mean the kid’s comin’ sooner rather than later?” 

“I was in labor for over a day with Sophia,” Carol says in a hushed tone, glancing around to make sure none of the attendees are listening in.

“I’ve heard that labor sometimes goes faster with the second baby. Is that true?” Michonne says, joining their small huddle in the back of the room. 

Carol can’t answer because she’s having another contraction. She swears under her breath and steels herself against a chair. Michonne and Tara sort of angle themselves to block Carol from immediate view, and Daryl hovers awkwardly, arms partly outstretched, like he’s not sure if touching her will make this better or worse.

“Carol.” 

Carol looks up and sees Mr. Overland pushing past Michonne and Tara to get right in her space, his wife behind him. Carol blows out a breath and straightens herself out through the tailend of her contraction. She tries to force a smile, but her bullshit banks are depleted at the moment, and the best she can do is not yell uncontrollably. Mr. Overland doesn’t seem to notice, anyway. His eyes are red-rimmed and he’s weepy when he takes Carol’s hand in his.

“Thank you for a beautiful service,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d pull it off.”

“You’re welcome,” Carol says quickly. Two hours ago this would be monumental, but her priorities have changed rather drastically now that her uterus is trying to murder her. In a funeral home, no less. What an ironic death that would be.

“I mean it, I really thought you’d shit the bed on this, but you exceeded my expectations. Not that my expectations were high, of course, but, well, you get the point.”

“And the bouquet was just gorgeous,” his wife adds.

“Yep, no problem, glad to help,” Carol says.

“You should probably get to the cemetery,” Michonne tells Mr. Overland gently. “You wouldn’t want to miss the burial.”

Mr. Overland nods solemnly. He gives Carol’s hand another good squeeze, and is about to pull away when a dripping sound catches all of their attention. The six of them look down and see that Carol is leaking from underneath her dress and onto one of Mr. Overland’s polished, black shoes. He and Carol stare at one another for a long beat of silence. 

“I think my water broke,” she says finally.

“Right,” Mr. Overland says. He slowly loosens his grip on her hand and awkwardly wipes the side of his shoe on the carpet.

“This doesn’t count as part of the funeral,” Tara says quickly. “This was off the clock.”

Mr. Overland looks at Tara like she’s some kind of exotic insect, before Michonne takes him by the elbow, muttering something about walking him and his wife to the door.

“That was awesome, boss,” Tara says, holding out a fist. Carol swats it away. 

“Make yourself useful and go get everyone off the property so Daryal and I can get out of here without causing a scene. Start the funeral procession yourself if you must, just do it quick. I need to go to the fucking hospital.”

“On it,” Tara says with a salute. She ducks out of the room, leaving Carol and Daryl alone.

Free to finally express her feelings on the whole labor situation, Carol proceeds to press her face against Daryl’s chest and scream a muffled, “Fucking ow!” 

“I know, sweetheart,” Daryl says gently. He holds her hips and rocks with her for a minute while she groans through yet another contraction.

“This is happening way too fast,” Carol says. “It’s not supposed to go this fast.” 

“Faster it goes the sooner we get to meet him, right?” Daryl tries to reassure her, even as anxiety wafts off him in waves. “C’mon, let’s get you some help.” 

It takes several minutes to get outside, because twice Carol has to stop and brace herself against the wall, and she doesn’t voice it, but every step makes her doubtful that this baby is going to wait long enough for them to get to the hospital.

Michonne and Tara meet them at the front door and start helping them to where Daryl’s car is parked. 

“Hey, Carol?” Michonne asks. “Do you think we should maybe call an ambulance? I’m no doctor, but the sounds you were making in there are like the ones those people in that ‘I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant’ show would make before giving birth in a toilet or something.” 

“I never understood how there were enough people who didn’t know they were pregnant that they could make a whole TV show about it,” Tara says.

“Not the time, honey,” Michonne whispers to Tara, patting her on the shoulder.

“Maybe she’s right,” Daryl says to Carol. “An ambulance can get you to the hospital in rush hour traffic quicker than I can, and you said yourself it’s goin’ real fast. I dunno how much longer the lil’ dude is gonna wait.”

The answer is ‘not long,’ because even as they’re discussing it, Carol is overwhelmed with a need to push, and she knows then that her window for a hospital birth has closed. Worse still, her window for drugs has closed. She doesn’t think she can even get back into the mortuary. It seems her only option is a parking lot birth, which is fitting, in a twisted sort of way, to have the baby right where Daryl spilled the ashes of his father nine months ago. She has no desire to do this here, but it turns out birth and death have something in common: Nine times out of ten you don’t get to choose when to die, and nine times out of ten you don’t get to choose when to be born. You can try and prepare, or even schedule it on your own terms, but at the end of the day, entering life and leaving it aren’t under your control.

Leaning with two hands on the side of the truck, Carol looks Daryl in the eye.

“I think he’s coming now,” she tells him. Fear flashes across his face, but he hides it quickly.

“Okay,” he says, faking calmness and bravery in an Emmy-worthy performance. “Then we’ll handle it. Can you get back inside?”

“No,” Carol says. The front door may as well be Mount Everest. 

“What do you need me to do?” asks Tara, ready for action. “I watched a stray cat have kittens in my ex-girlfriend’s garage, so I got experience.” 

“Your job,” Michonne says, slapping her cell phone into the palm of Tara’s hand. “Is to call 911, stay out of the way, and not try to fistbump anyone.” 

“Not as fun, but fine,” Tara says. She walks off a few paces and begins dialing. 

“I’m gonna go inside and grab towels,” Michonne says. Daryl looks at her like he’s a five year old and Michonne just dumped him in the woods and told him to walk home by himself. “I’ll be right back, just stay calm.” She doesn’t wait for a reply. She dashes off towards the mortuary, and Daryl turns his attention on Carol, and Carol would reassure him if she wasn’t busy screaming and her cervix wasn’t currently on fire. 

Daryl helps her get her underwear off—perhaps the least sexy that particular act has ever been—and then does that hovering thing again. Carol knows that he’s probably thinking he should lay her on her back, since that’s probably the only way he’s ever been taught birthing should happen, but birthing positions are a lot like sex positions—different things work for different people, and right now, drinking embalming fluid sounds better to Carol than being on her back. Instead, her body naturally sinks into a squat and works with gravity. 

When the baby crowns she’s vaguely aware of the inhuman noises coming from her throat, and that Daryl is saying words of encouragement that she’s not even bothering to process. The only thing on her mind is pushing. If someone told her she could have a million dollars but she’d have to stop pushing it wouldn’t even be a competition. Nothing in the world matters more or feels better right now than pushing, and so that’s precisely what she does, and, like magic, she feels the baby slide lower and lower, until his head is all the way out of her.

“Catch him,” she gasps, knowing the rest of him is only seconds behind. “Don’t let him fall.”

Sweating, swearing, and still in shock at how fast this all has happened, Carol works with her body to go that final distance, and she is flush with the most instant relief when the baby’s shoulders come through and his body slides right out into Daryl’s waiting arms. She collapses on the ground and revels in the absence of pain.

But the relief is momentary, because without the pain the magnitude of what just happened hits her like a freight train, and she’s suddenly paralyzed with fear.

They’re not in a hospital. The ambulance hasn’t arrived yet. If there’s something wrong there’s nothing they can do, and it’s  _ her _ fault. She waited too long to do anything, and what if it put her son in danger? She clamps her eyes shut, suddenly convinced the worst has happened, and not wanting to see another one of her babies dead. 

“Carol, look,” Daryl says. His voice sounds far away, like he’s talking to her from underwater.

“I can’t,” she whispers.

“Carol,” and his voice is closer and softer now. “He’s fine. He’s just fine. Look.”

Fighting all her instincts, Carol forces herself to open her eyes and turn her head to where Daryl is sitting beside her, beaming. Her gaze flits away from his face, down to the fussy, squirmy thing in his arms. The baby is a healthy pink, and his chest moves as he takes in a gulp of air and exhales it in a cry, and Carol cries with him.

She doesn’t say anything at first—can’t remember how—but she reaches out and Daryl hands the baby over, and when his warm skin touches hers she finally lets herself believe that he’s okay. 

Michonne is there with towels, sirens are growing closer in the distance, and Tara is trying to fistbump Daryl despite her orders, but the only thing Carol can pay attention to is her son. She lifts him up and holds him chest-to-chest. Underneath the palm she has on his back she can feel the rapid beats of his tiny heart, and when she kisses his temple his pulse thrums against her lips. Through tears, Carol searches out Daryl, who is watching the two of them with more emotion on his face than she has ever seen.

“He’s here,” he says, his voice a little shaky, and Carol lets out a wet laugh, because what an understatement.

“He’s not just here,” she says. “He’s  _ alive _ .” 

*

“He’s got your nose,” Daryl says quietly. He’s perched on the edge of her hospital bed, gazing down at the baby swaddled tight, milk drunk and cuddled up with mom.

“Your mouth, though. And your ears. He has a lot of you, actually. How’s that fair?  _ I _ made him and pushed him out of me, but he decides to look like you? Rude.”

“Nah, you’re in there,” Daryl says, tracing the baby’s cheek lightly with his thumb. The baby’s lip twitches, making Daryl smile.

“I still say we lie on his birth certificate about his birthday. What will it matter if it’s one day off?”

“Ah, c’mon, no one will make the connection. April twentieth is a perfectly respectable birthday.” 

“No one will make the connection, huh? Glenn texted me when he got back from the cemetery and heard what happened, ‘congrats, hashtag blaze it,’” Carol deadpans, and grins a little when Daryl tries and fails to hide his laugh. “Speaking of birth certificates, though, he’s gonna need a name. And I swear to God, if you say Cheech or Chong I will lock you in a casket and let you suffocate.” 

“Of course not,” he scoffs. “What about Bob Marley? First and middle name.” Carol throws a pillow at him. 

“Sorry,” Daryl says unapologetically. “I did have a name I been sittin’ on, though. We don’t gotta use it or nothin’, but…” He shrugs, suddenly seeming self-conscious.

“Tell me.” When he hesitates, she assures him, “If I don’t like it I’ll say so, but I won’t think it’s stupid or anything. No bad ideas in brainstorming, right?”

Daryl picks at his cuticle while he works up the courage.

“Thomas,” he says finally.

“Thomas?” Carol says. “That's a good name, but why that one?” 

“Um, well, back before you and me was together, and I still thought you was gonna sign over your rights, I wanted to come up with a name that would kinda like, I dunno, give him a part of you. And since your job is a real big part of who you are, I thought the name might fit.” 

“Thomas…” Carol tilts her head at him, running through her memory banks to place the name. “Daryl, do you mean like Thomas Holmes? The father of American embalming?” Daryl shrugs sheepishly, and tears immediately spring to Carol’s eyes.

“Oh yikes, is it that bad?” Daryl asks. 

“No, not at all, it’s perfect. Just, the fact that you wanted to name him that for me even though you thought I wasn’t going to be here…”

“Yeah, well, now it can be both our decision, ‘cause you  _ are _ here,” Daryl says, sliding up to the top of the bed and wrapping an arm around Carol. “So whaddya think? Is he a Thomas?” 

Carol contemplates the baby’s sleeping face.

“He’s definitely a Thomas,” she agrees. She rests her head on Daryl’s shoulder and the two of them admire their son. 

“Thank you,” Daryl says after a while.

“For what?” 

“For him. For bein’ my dream girl.” He nuzzles the side of her face with his nose and plants a soft kiss on her forehead. “For stayin’,” he whispers. 

“Well, thank  _ you _ .”

“For what?” 

Carol angles her head to smile up at him. 

“For teaching me that I don’t have to be afraid to live.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wasn't gonna talk about 4th degree perineal lacerations in this fic, but since i did in my other two baby!fics it felt wrong not to mention vagassholes, for consistency's sake. you understand.
> 
> i've known the kid was gonna be named after thomas holmes almost since the beginning, but as i was typing that scene i had to do a quick search, bc i knew he worked during the civil war, but had never checked to see if he worked for the union or the confederacy, and was like, "yikes, am i naming their kid after a slaveholder??" 
> 
> good news, he worked for the union. 
> 
> anyway, click next chapter to read a strange epilogue ---->


	17. Epilogue

Thomas:

_ The One Who Does Not Have Milk is staring again. He does that a lot—stares and smiles and talks. I’ve yet to determine his purpose. I can only assume he is The One Who Has Milk’s assistant, as he is always fetching things for her and giving her massages. Come to think of it, he may also be my assistant. He will often take me to The One Who Has Milk when I beckon, or will clean me when I have soiled myself. He excels in these areas, so I suppose I can’t fault The One Who Has Milk for keeping him around. _

_ He is picking me up again. I wasn’t beckoning, but I suppose I could eat. Onward, Milkless One, let’s go find the boss.  _

_...He is sitting down in the chair-that-rocks. I have been tricked. This is not a feeding, it is a cuddle. Both he and The One Who Has Milk insist on having cuddles, which I endure only because rocking is comforting and I have yet to figure out which parts of my meat house to move to do it myself, but I would rather have a feeding than a cuddle. I believe I will beckon and see if The One Who Has Milk will appear.  _

_ “Shh shh, lil’ one, hold on a minute,” The One Who Does Not Have Milk says. I do not listen, as he does not have milk and that is what I want.  _

_ The One Who Has Milk arrives at last. Does she not realize how much energy it takes to beckon? It also makes my face wet, and I can’t move my meat appendages like they can in order to wipe it away.  _

_ The One Who Has Milk does not save me from the milkless one. I am dismayed and beckon harder, but she does not seem to hear me. She hands something to the milkless one and then stands beside him, crossing her meat appendages in front of where the milk comes out. The One Who Does Not Have Milk takes whatever she has given him and starts prodding my face hole with it. This is unwarranted behavior and I am displeased. I try and explain this, but the milkless one continues to shove whatever it is into my face hole until I am forced to suckle on it, and… _

_ Okay, this is a game changer. There is milk. Somehow the milkless one is providing a feeding without dispensing milk from his meat house.  _

_ “Seems like he’s taking to the bottle just fine,” says The One Who Has Milk. _

_ “I’d say so. Dude eats like he’s starvin’. That’s how he keeps them cheeks nice and fat.” _

_ Fuck you, but I’ll give you a pass this time because this bottle thing is pretty sweet. _

_ “I think he likes you feeding him. Do you think you’ll be okay until I get back from the service?”  _

_ “Hell yeah. You go ahead and go do your undertaker thing, sweetheart, me and him will be just fine.” _

_ “Funeral director.” _

_ “That’s what I said.” _

_ “Uh huh. Remember, there’s about ten ounces of milk still in the fridge, and I froze some, too, but I shouldn’t be gone that long. And you know not to microwave it, right? Use hot water.” _

_ “Baby?” _

_ “Hm?”  _

_ “Stop stressin’. You ain’t stayin’ at work the whole day, it’s just for the funeral. You’ll be back home with us ‘fore you know it.” _

_ “I know. It’s just hard. I’ll get better at letting him out of my sight, but…” _

_ “I get it. It’s a process. ‘Sides, it ain’t just you. I hate bein’ away when I’m at work. You’re not crazy. Plus, it’ll be easier once we move him into the loft.”  _

_ “I know. But I don’t wanna smother him, either. Right now it’s fine because he’s a baby, but as he gets older…” _

_ “As he gets older we’ll deal with it. For right now, though, he’s healthy as a horse, has one hell of an appetite, and you’re gonna be late for the funeral if you don’t get your ass out that door.” _

_ “Yes, fine, you’re right. I love you, see you soon.” She and the milkless one press their mouth holes together. “You be good for your daddy, Thomas.” She presses her mouth hole on me. I have yet to figure out why they do this, but they do it often.  _

_ “Love you. Go bury Ms. Perry.”  _

_ “She literally lost half her jaw in the accident. Tara had to remake it from scratch. I’ll show you the pictures next time you’re over at the mortuary.” _

_ “Looking forward to it.”  _

_ The One Who Has Milk leaves, going out into the place-with-no-walls, which would usually be distressing, except it appears that the milkless one does, somehow, have milk.  _

_ “Tell you what, kid,” the previously-milkless one says. “I know it’s weird to have your momma go off to a funeral, but it’s gonna happen quite a bit. You’re pro’ly gonna hafta to deal with the idea of death earlier than most, ‘cause the Grim Reaper puts bread on the table in this family. But hopefully your mom and me are able to teach you how to enjoy the life you get. No one knows how many days they got in ‘em, so let’s make ‘em all count, alright? That don’t mean you gotta go crazy tryna make every day special, don’t misunderstand. Every day you’re breathin’ is already special. But to make ‘em count you gotta do the things that scare you, and let yourself be in love, even if it finds you in a weird place. Like a mortuary parking lot, for example. It all can change in an instant, sweetheart, good or bad, so just roll with the punches, okay? You got that?”  _

_ The One Who Has Milk and our assistant say the word “death” a lot. They talk about “life,” too. I, personally, have yet to understand the magic behind peek-a-boo, so I do not expend too much energy on sussing out what these words mean, but if life is what I have right now, then the previously-milkless one needn’t worry. Ten minutes ago I believed him incapable of providing a feeding. There’s no way of knowing what will happen in another ten minutes. I needn’t look to the past nor to the future—partially because the concept of time is still a bit of a mystery—but mostly because I’m comfortable in the present moment.  _

_ If this is life, then right now I am living it, and that’s good enough. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's all she wrote, lads. and by she, i mean me. that's all i wrote. this fic is over now. it is bittersweet. i had a fun as fuck time with this one, but as we have learned, everything has an end. thanks for entertaining my self-indulgent bullshit, and thank you v much for your kind words. i don't reply to them often, but plz know that i read every word.
> 
> genuine thanks from the bottom of my heart, my dudes
> 
> until next time,
> 
> -diz
> 
> (speaking of next time)
> 
> upcoming stuff/housekeeping:
> 
> -i have a new fic in the queue that i've already started writing the first chapter on, and will likely post here in the next few days, so. idk, if you care about that, you know to be on the look out. it's like, magical realism/specultive fiction, and also the moon is mentioned a lot. it'll be a weird time
> 
> -for scrap metal ppl: i have a gas gauge chapter on deck, but i'm helping my partner move out of state this week (for a year -skull emoji-), and then have surgery literally the day i get back, and gas gauge takes a lot more mental energy to write, so i'm gonna update that /after/ posting the first chapter of my new story. soz
> 
> -i think that's it
> 
> -the end?

**Author's Note:**

> hi. if you read gas gauge you may have noticed that this is being posted on gas gauge update day instead of a new chapter of that. i just needed a little break from gas gauge, bc the last two chapters were super heavy, so even tho i swore to myself i wouldn't start any new projects (اصمتي سارة), i, well, did anyway. and i'm glad i did, bc i'm enjoying the hell out of this. hopefully some of you all are too, but if not imma still write it ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> anyway, this has no specific update schedule, but i write it when im overwhelmed, and im overwhelmed a lot, so it'll prob still get updated fairly regularly. gas gauge should be back next mon/tue at your normal viewing time. see y'all around the archive
> 
> deuces,  
> -diz


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